, 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS 


VERSES    OF    TWO    CHILDREN 


E  L  A  1  N  E     G  O  O  D  A  L  E      > 
D  O  A'  A     A>  E  A  D     G  0  0  D  A  L  E 


NE\V     YORK 
G .     P  .     P  U  T  N  A  M  '  S    SONS 

l82    FIFTH    AVENUE 
1879 


r  BY 

G.  I*.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
IS73 


PREFACE. 

Child-life,  self -expressed,  is  something  so  rare  in 
literature  that  a  few  explanatory  words  seem  lit  in 
offering  this  little  volume  to  the  public. 

These  verses  are,  above  all  else,  fresh  and  spon 
taneous,  the  almost  unconscious  outflow  of  two 
simple,  wholesome  lives,  in  their  earliest  youth.  By 
their  grace  and  purity  they  have  given  perennial 
delight  to  the  family  circle,  that  favorable  audience 
for  which  alone  they  were  written. 

Yet  they  are  but  apple-blossoms,  the  delicate 
garlands  with  which  New  England  orchards  wake 
in  loveliness.  If  now,  willing  to  share  them  with 
other  kindly  hearts  that  love  true  and  simple  things, 
we  find  that  we  have  offered  too  slight  a  bouquet  in 
the  market-places,  we  shall  await  with  patience  the 
fruitage  of  the  coming  years. 

445266 


IV  PREFACE. 

The  future,  with  its  serious  responsibilities  and 
earnest  labor,  its  faithful  devotion  to  the  service  of 
God's  Truth  and  Beauty,  must  bring  the  ripe  work 
which  searching  criticism  shall  test,  and  Time  him 
self  shall  weigh. 

D.  H.  R.  G. 
SKY  FARM,  August  I,  1878. 


TO      OUR      MOTHER. 

THE  LOWLIEST  BLOSSOM   OF  THE  SPRING, 

BY   RAIN  AND   SUNLIGHT  FED, 
TO  LIMPID  BLUE  AND   PEARLY  CLOUD 

UPLIFTS  ITS  DROOPING  HEAD. 

EVEN   SO,    WITH   IMPULSE  WARM,    WE  BRING 

THE  BLOOM  OF  INFANCY, 
THE  FRAGRANCE  OF  OUR  EARLIEST  YEARS, 

O   MOTHER  DEAR,    TO  THEE  ! 

THE   LOVE  THAT   GAVE  US  LIFE   AND    STRENGTH, 

THAT  GUARDED   DAY   BY  DAY, 
WHAT  TENDEREST  WORDS   CAN   HALF  EXPRESS  ? 

WHAT  ANSWERING  LOVE  REPAY  ? 

YET  TAKE  THE  FRESH   AND   SIMPLE  WREATH 
WHOSE  EVERY   FLOWER  IS  THINE, 

TILL  RIPER  YEARS  THEIR  TRIUMPFS  BRING, 
TO   OFFER  AT  THY   SHRINE. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS   BY   ELAINE    GOODALE. 

PAGB 
APPLE-BLOSSOM  TIME    .  .  .  .  .  •  .11 

THE  LAST  HAREBELL          ......  13 

AUTUMN     ......  .14 

AN  APPEAL  TO  MAY  ......  15 

SORROW      .........      16 

SONG  FOR  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR  .  17 

THE  FALLING  SNOW       ....  -19 

NIGHT  AND  MORNING  .....  20 

SPRING  SONG        ........      22 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  BIRDS  ...  .24 

SPRING  RAIN        .....•••      26 

TRAILING  ARCUTUS    ......  27 

SPRING        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  •  •      29 

THE  QUEEN  OF  MAY  ......  31 

CONTRADICTIONS  .......      33 

JUNE  COMES  IN  TO-MORROW         .....  34 

JUNE  .  .,          .  .  .  .  .  .  -35 

A  SONG  TO  SUMMER  ......  37 

ASHES  OF  ROSES   .  .  .  .  .  .  .39 

THE  HARVEST  MOON  ......  4° 

THE  ASTER          ........      41 

DEAD  LEAVES  .......  42 

THE  FAREWELL  OF  THE  SEASONS        .  .  .  .  -44 

"TOUCH  Us  GENTLY,  GENTLY,  TIME"    ....  53 

CHRISTMAS  EVB   .  ......      55 


VIII  CONTENTS. 

LIFE  IN  DEATH          .......  57 

TRANSFIGURED      ........      58 

A  BROOK  LIIE  .  .  .  •  •  •  6o 

THE  FIRST  FLOWERS      .....  .63 

PAPA'S  BIRTHDAY      .......  65 

MY  WINDOW  CURTAIN  .......      67 

LOVE'S  IMAGE  .......  69 

TRANSPLANTED     ......»•      71 

THE  NINETEENTH  OF  JULY  .  '    • 

JEWELS       ....•••••      8° 

THISTLES  AND  ROSES  .  ....  84 

TWIN  LAKES — WAUSHINING       .  ...      88 

THE  DEATH  OF  SUMMER      .  .    -  9° 

VISIONS  OF  AUTUMN       .  ....      93 

THANKSGIVING    .  .97 

THE  FARM  BEYOND  THE  HILLS  .  ..          •  •    10° 

HAPPY  BIRTHDAY— A  TWO-FOLD  SONG   .  .          102 

ROSE  LEAVES       ....  .  .    104 

CHRISTMAS  CAROL     .  ...          105 

CHRISTMAS  POEM— THE  GUIDING  STAR          .  .  .  .106 

ALL  ROUND  THE  YEAR        .  I09 

NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING  ......    "2 

AN  ICE  STORM  .  •         "3 

BEAUTY  FOR  ASHES         ...«•«•    IJ5 
FAITH,  HOPE  AND  LOVE      .  •          "7 

WELCOME  SPRING!         .......    "8 

S.  H.  W.-APRJL  23,  1878   ....  .120 

WELCOME! "2 

NATURE'S  COINAGE    .......         124 

GRANDFATHER'S  BIRTHDAY        .  .  .  •  •  •    I28 

NEAREST  HEAVEN     ...••••          J3° 

THE  LADY'S  SLIPPER      .  .  .  .  .  •  .132 

LILY  AND  ROSEBUD    .  .  .  •         J34 

To  ........     i35 

THROUGH  STORM  AND  CALM  .....         *37 

Two  SONNETS       .  .  .  .  .  •  .14° 

IN  MEMORIAM,  E.  R.— THREE  SONNETS  .  142 


CONTENTS.  IX 


POEMS   BY   DORA    READ    GOODALE. 

SPRING  AND  SUMMER      .  .  .  •  •  •  •    X47 

WAIT *48 

WELCOME  TO  BABY  MARTHA   .  .  .    i5c 

DARK  THE  DAY  BUT  BRIGHT  THE  HEART  .  .         *52 

SUMMER  is  COMING        .  .  .  .  •    153 

STRAWBERRIES  .  .  •  •  •  •          X55 

QUEEN  HAREBELL  .  ....    156 

SUMMER  ....••••         J58 

TRUE  LOVE          .  «    J59 

SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW        .  .  .  .  •  .        .161 

MEMORY l6a 

FROM  SPRING  TO  FALL        .  .  .  .163 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLOWERS  .  .  .165 

WHAT  is  LEFT?         ....  .  .          168 

THE  MONTHS        .....'.  .169 

'RAH  FER  TILDING    .  .  .  .  .  «  . '       171 

THE  GRUMBLER  .  .  .  .     '      •  •          •  .    i?2 

A  WINTER'S  NIGHT  .......         J74 

A  SUMMER'S  NIGHT       .  .        -  .  •  •  •  •    *75 

THE  HUMMING-BIRD'S  NEST          .  .  ...  .176 

WINTER      .  .  .  •  •  *  *  *    T?& 

TEACH  Us  How  TO  PRAY   .  .  .180 

MARCH .  .  .    181 

WHO  STARTS  THE  FLOWERS?         .  .  .  .  .182 

FAIRYLAND  ..•••««•    l%4 

MAY .          186 

A  BIT  OF  WOODS 188 

To  THE  SWALLOWS    ....•••         189 

SPRING  SCATTERS  FAR  AND  WIDE      .  .  .  .  .191 

IT  SEEMS  AS  IF  THE  FLOWERS  WERE  ALIVE         .  .  .193 

A  SUMMER  SHOWER       .  .  .  .  .  .  •    i9S 

THE  BOBOLINK'S  NEST        ...  .  .19? 

HAYMAKING          ........    ^99 

A  MIDSUMMER  DAY  ......          200 

OUR  CHICKENS     ...«••••    201 

IN  TKE  LOFT  .  ......         203 


X  CONTENTS. 

HIGH  AND  Low    .  ......    204 

AFTER  THE  RAIN       .  .  .  .          .  .  .205 

AT  DAWN  ........    206 

SIGHTS  AND  SOUNDS  OF  SUMMER    .....         207 

SLEEP         .  .  .  .  ...  .  .  .    208 

AN  AUTUMN  PICTURE          ...  .  .  .  .209 

ONE  MOMENT  MORE      .......    210 

INDIAN  SUMMER         .  .  .  .  .  .  .211 

THROUGH  THE  BRANCHES          ......    213 

AUTUMN'S  DYING       .  .  .         '.  .  .  .         215 

To  A  DEAD  LEAF  .  .  .  .  .  .  .217 

BLOW    .........         219 

LET  Us  THANK  OUR  FATHER  DEAR  ....    221 

SNOWDRIFTS     .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .         222 

THE  SNOW  BIRD  .......    223 

FRIENDSHIP      .  .  ."  .  .  .  .  .         224 

SPRING  is  HERE  .  .  .  .  .  .  .225 

FLOWN  AWAY  .  .      v     .  .  .  .  .226 

WREN  SHALL  SPRINGTIME  CHEER  Us  ?  227 

AN  APRIL  RAIN         .......         228 

APRIL!  APRIL!  ARE  YOU  HERE?          .....    229 

A  WELCOME   .  .  .  ...  .  .  .230 

SING,  O,  SING  TO  THE  SPRING  .  .  .  .  .231 

IN  THE  WOODS          .......          232 

BEFORE  A  STORM  .  .  ....    234 

AFTER  A  STORM         .......         235 

SOFTLY,  SOFTLV,  DIE  AWAY     ......    236 

IN  THE  SPRING          .......         237 

BIRTHDAY  SONG— TO  H.  S.  G.  .  .  .  .  .239 

WHO  BRINGS  IN  THE  SUMMER  ?  .  .  .  .         241 

MAIDEN'S  HAIR   .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .    243 

SUNSET  .  .  .  .  .          '.  .  .245 

WHAT  DO  You  SEE  ?.....  .246 

A  SKY  OF  SCURF.YING  CLOUDS        .....         248 

A  LULLABY          ........    249 

RIPE  GRAIN     ......  .         251 

PURPOSES      ......  .22 


POEMS. 


ELAINE  GOODALE. 
BORN,  Oct.  gth^  1863. 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 


APPLE-BLOSSOM    TIME. 

|HE  sky  is  rich  in  shimmering  sheen 

Of  deep,  delicious  blue  ; 
The  earth  is  freshly,  softly  green, 

Of  one  translucent  hue  ; 
The  choir  of  birds  in  wood  and  field 

Ring  out  a  happy  chime  ; 
The  trees  their  fairest  foliage  yield 
In  apple-blossom  time. 

The  orchard  rows  are  all  ablush, 

The  meadows  all  aglow  ; 
On  every  bough  a  vivid  flush, 

A  drift  of  petalled  snow  ; 
The  clustered  bloom,  with  faint  perfume, 

Wreathes  many  a  garland  fine, 
And  many  a  rosy,  nodding  plume 

In  apple-blossom  time. 


12  APPLE-BLOSSOM  TIME. 

The  fullness  of  our  early  dreams, 

Tho'  fresh  and  pure  and  sweet 
When  the  glad  earth  with  beauty  teems, 

Soon  trembles  to  our  feet  ; 
Richer,  tho'  rarer,  comes  the  fruit 

To  crown  a  golden  prime, 
Fulfilling  pledges  proffered  us 

In  apple-blossom  time. 


THE   LAST   HAREBELL. 

[LUCK  the  harebell,  fading  fast, 

Little  one  ! 
Pluck  it,  for  it  blooms  the  last — 
Summer's  done. 

For  the  harebell  comes  in  June, 

Bright  and  blue, 
Lasts  until  October's  noon — 

Blooms  for  you. 

So  love,  darling,  for  my  sake, 

Sweet  harebell, 
Drooping  fair  on  stony  brake, 

Hill  or  dell. 

Graceful  harebell,  lovely  flower  ! 
Tho'  we  part, 

Come  again  in  Summer's  hour- 
Cheer  my  heart ! 


AUTUMN. 

JATURE  hath  cast  her  summer  robes, 

I     Her  bonny  robes  of  green, 

She  wears  her  Autumn  colors  now, 
In  brighter  tints  she's  seen. 

A  wreath  of  gentians  crowns  her  brow, 

And  harebells  kiss  her  feet  ; 
The  soft  breeze  wafts  o'er  woods  and  fields 

A  fragrance  passing  sweet. 

The  purple  asters  bloom  in  crowds 

In  every  shady  nook, 
And  ladies'  eardrops  deck  the  banks 

Of  many  a  babbling  brook. 

O  Autumn,  stay  !  your  flowers  renew, 

And  brighter  paint  your  leaves, 
'Twould  break  our  hearts  to  have  you  go 

With  fruits  and  golden  sheaves  ! 


AN   APPEAL   TO   MAY. 

|OME  forth  and  cheer  us,  dainty  May  ! 

Come  forth  !  thou  canst  no  more  delay  ; 
Thy  tender  buds,  in  haste  to  blow, 
Are  checked  and  chilled  by  frost  and  snow  ; 
We  sigh  for  thee,  both  night  and  day, 
Then  come  and  cheer  us,  gentle  May  ! 

The  poets  shout  thee  to  the  skies  ; 
But  lo  !  their  murmur  fainting  dies, 
'Tis  frozen  in  the  cloudy  grey, — 
Now  colder  greetings  welcome  May  ; 
Then  melt  it,  Love,  and  make  it  thine, 
And  all  shall  hail  thee,  May  divine  ! 


SORROW. 

JEAR1LY  sigheth  Sorrow's  wind 

Over  meadow  and  moor, 
Wearily  sigheth  Sorrow's  wind 

Over  the  rich  and  poor, 
Till  it  cometh  to  a  cottage  door, 
Where  it  hath  never  been  before. 

Sadly  it  moaneth  at  the  door, 

But  they  will  not  let  it  in  ; 
Outside  Sorrow  and  Sin  may  roar, 

Sweet  Sunshine  reigns  within  ; 
Sin  cannot  conquer,  nor  Sorrow  slay, 
Where  a  smiling  spirit  dwells  alway. 

Then  Death  spreads  out  his  great  black  wings, 

And  covers  up  their  day  ; 
But  the  angel  fair  that  guards  the  house, 

Wipes  all  their  tears  away  ; 
It  whispers  softly,  "  God  knows  best," 
And  to  His  grace  they  leave  the  rest. 


SONG  FOR  THE  LAST  NIGHT  OF  THE 
OLD  YEAR. 

|EST,  weary  ones,  serenely  rest 

Upon  the  Old  Year's  gentle  breast  ! 
Ere  yet  again  you  wake  from  sleep, 
His  faithful  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 

No  more,  no  more,  alas  !  no  more 

You'll  sleep  in  1874. 

Weep,  fill  your  eyes  with  tender  tears, 
Weep  for  the  old  forgotten  years, 
Weep  for  the  year  about  to  die, 
Softly  and  sadly  say  good-bye  ; 

No  more,  no  more,  alas  !   no  more 

You'll  weep  in  1874. 

Kiss,  wrathful  ones,  forgive  and  kiss  ; 
Do  not  the  Old  Year  thus  dismiss, 
Let  not  the  happy  New  Year  in 
To  bosoms  filled  with  grief  or  sin ; 

Forgive  and  kiss,  nor  linger  more 

While  yet  'tis  1874. 


1 8  SONG  OF  THE  OLD   YEAR. 

Smile,  troubled  ones,  be  glad  and  smile, 
O  let  your  joy  be  free  from  guile  ! 
Smile  to  the  sad,  a  cheerful  beam 
May  help  them  on  thro'  life's  dark  stream 

Weep  for  the  Old  Year  yet  alive, 

But  smile  on  1875  ! 


THE  FALLING  SNOW. 

'HE  snow  it  falleth  so  soft  and  slow, 

This  beautiful,  busy  night ; 
The  mists  reach  down  to  the  earth  below, 
And  all  is  one  sheet  of  white. 

The  snow  it  falleth  so  soft  and  slow, 
From  the  angels'  clouded  bars  ; 

The  feathery  flakes  at  the  window  blow 
And  dot  it  with  tiny  stars. 

The  snow  it  falleth  so  soft  and  slow, 
O'er  the  grave  of  the  dying  day  ; 

Earth's  rounded  bosom  is  full  of  woe, 
And  the  skies  wear  a  shroud  of  grey. 

The  snow  it  falleth  so  soft  and  slow, 
Thro'  the  veil  of  the  darkening  night  ; 

Till  the  morning  dawns  in  a  rosy  glow, 
And  the  sky  is  blue  and  bright. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

|NE  is  clad  in  snowy  garments, 

Purer,  fairer  than  the  lily, 
And  her  cheeks  are  like  to  rosebuds, 
Dewy,  dainty,  morning  rosebuds, 
Opening  first  to  air  and  sunshine, 
First  revealing  all  their  beauty, 
All  their  hidden,  maiden  beauty, 
First  from  soft,  green  wraps  unfolding 
All  their  tender,  rosy  blushes — 
And  her  locks  are  soft  and  golden, 
Scattering  a  light  around  her 
Nothing  else  can  shed  or  scatter, 
Wooing  all  the  lights  of  day  dawn, 
Lovelier  than  all  or  any ; 
And  her  eyes  are  bluer,  brighter, 
Softer,  deeper,  clearer,  fairer 
Than  the  azure  of  the  heavens 
In  the  month  that  Earth  doth  boast  of,- 
June — and  may  she  live  forever  ! 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  21 

And  forever  live  the  Princess, 
Morning,  sweet,  celestial  Morning, 
Whose  bright  eyes  do  bear  her  colors  ! 

But  the  other  creepeth  softly, 
Draped  in  her  own  flowing  tresses, 
Dark  as  only  Night  can  make  them, 
Lighted  up  with  eyes  as  starry 
As  the  brightest  orb  in  Heaven  ; 
Shaded  by  her  silken  lashes 
As  the  stars  by  clouds  are  shaded  ; — 
Cheeks  as  rosy  red  as  coral, 
Ocean-kissed,  fresh  budding  coral, — 
Rose-flushed  limbs  lapt  in  the  twilight 
Of  the  golden  summer  evening. 


SPRING  SONG. 

THE  little  streams  are  running, 

Running,  running  ! — 
O  the  little  streams  are  running 

O'er  the  lea ; 
And  the  green,  soft  grass  is  springing, 

Springing,  springing  ! — 
And  the  green,  soft  grass  is  springing, 

Fair  to  see. 

In  the  woods  the  breezes  whisper, 

Whisper,  whisper  ! — 
In  the  woods  the  breezes  whisper 

To  the  flowers  ; 
And  the  robins  sing  their  welcome, 

Welcome,  welcome  ! — 
And  the  robins  sing  their  welcome — 

Happy  hours  ! 


SPRING  SONG.  23 

Over  all  the  sun  is  shining, 

Shining,  shining  ! — 
Over  all  the  sun  is  shining 

Clear  and  bright, 
Flooding  bare  and  waiting  meadows, 

Meadows,  meadows  ! — 
Flooding  bare  and  waiting  meadows 

With  his  light. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE   BIRDS. 

]N  St.  Valentine's  Day, 
As  the  legends  say, 
Each  birdling  chooses  a  mate, — 
Here,  mantled  in  snow, 
Rude  Winter  says  "No," 
And  hopefully  still  we  must  wait. 

But  when  violets  peep 

From  the  hillside  steep, 
And  over  them  hums  the  bee, 

Then  merrily  home 

The  wild  birds  come, — 
A  bright  little  band  to  see. 

Familiar  and  fair, 

Their  wings  cleave  the  air, 

And  quiver,  and  flutter,  and  dally, 
And  each  liquid  note 
From  a  fresh-tuned  throat, 

Rings  clear  over  woodland  and  valley. 


THE  COMING  OF   THE  BIRDS.  2$ 

O  follow  !  O  follow  ! 

Thou  lingering  swallow, — 
The  robin  and  blue  bird  are  here  ; 

'Mid  the  tender  leaves, 

'Neath  the  dusky  eaves, 
Come,  twitter  and  chirp  your  cheer  ! 

Over  dewy  red  clover, 

Each  gay  little  rover 
May  circle,  and  chatter,  and  play  ; 

For  a  day  he  may  wait, 

With  his  gentle  brown  mate, 
Till  the  home-life  calls  him  away. 

Then  he'll  build  him  a  house 

'Mid  the  tangled  boughs  ; 
And  in  sunny  summer  weather, 

In  the  quiet  wood 

He  will  rear  a  brood, 
He  and  his  love  together. 


SPRING   RAIN. 

|HE  wind  brushes  briskly  and  busily  by, 
O'er  the  gracious   expanse    of    the   tender 

blue  sky, 

And  the  misty  white  veils  that  about  her  will  crowd, 
Are  silently  gathered  in  pillars  of  cloud. 

The  warm  vapor  skyward  no  longer  can  stay, 
It  melts  into  rain  and  it  patters  away  ; 
Each  drop,  as  below  in  the  earth  it  doth  creep, 
Awakens  a  flower  from  its  long  winter's  sleep. 

The   grass,  dead  and  brown,  at  its  touch  groweth 

green, 

The  bud  yet  unopened,  a  blossom  is  seen  ; 
All  nature  is  started  to  vigor  again 
At  the  magical  call  of  the  soft-falling  rain. 


TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

EEP  in  the  lonely  forest, 

High  on  the  mountain  side, 
Long  is  the  dreary  winter, 

Short  is  the  summer  tide  ; 
Just  in  the  breath  between  them, 

Pregnant  with  sun  and  showers, 
Starts  from  the  earth  primeval 
Fairest  of  northern  flowers. 

All  through  the  sunny  summer, 

Lavish  with  wealth  of  bloom, 
She,  too,  hath  shared  life's  fullness, 

Hid  in  her  forest  gloom  ; 
Nurtured  with  dews  and  sunlight, 

Richly  her  buds  are  fed, 
Fresh,  while  the  summer  fadeth, 

Fresh,  when  its  flowers  are  dead. 

Then  when  the  rude  winds  seek  her, 
Threaten  her  buds  to  blast, 

Fiercely  assailed  by  Winter, 
Fearless  she  holds  them  fast, 


28  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

Fast,  till  the  spring  draws  nearer  ; 

Fast  till  the  days  grow  fair ; 
Fast,  till  the  April  showers , 

Quicken  the  chilly  air. 

Waked  by  the  murmuring  breezes, 

Kissed  by  the  shining  sun, 
Up  in  a  burst  of  transport 

Starteth  the  prisoned  one  ; — 
Blushing  in  airy  clusters, 

Pressing  a  mossy  bed, 
Leaves   of  autumnal  russet 

Over  her  soft  couch  shed. 

Close  to  the  damp  earth  clinging, 

Tender,  and  pink,  and  shy  ; 
Lifting  her  waxen  blossoms 

Up  to  the  changeful  sky  ; — 
Welcome  !  our  springtide  darling, 

Fresh  in  thy  virgin  hue; 
Long  as  the  oaks  stand  round  thee, 

Yearly  thy  charms  renew  ! 


SPRING. 

JARK  I  the  breezes  tremble 
With  the  sighs  of  April  ;- 

See  her  sweeping  northward, 
Spring  !  our  Spring  ! 

Lingering,  still  we  love  her, 

Still  we  smile  and  beckon, 

As  we  hear  the  rustling 
Of  her  wing. 

Nearer,  nearer,  nearer  ! 
Dearer,  dearer,  dearer ! 
Flying  ever  onward 

Comes  the  Spring. 
What  tho'  cloud-veils  sometime 
Dim  her  eyes  of  azure  ? 
Ah,  the  rarest  pleasure 

Tears  may  bring  ! 

Flowers  mark  her  pathway, — 
Violets'  dewy  blueness, 


3°  SPRING. 

Blooming  sweet  and  lowly, 
Heralds  Spring  ; 

Dear  arbutus,  fairest, 

Rosiest  and  rarest, 

In  the  shaded  woodlands 
Doth  she  fling. 

Green  the  grass  is  growing, 
Babbling  brooks  are  flowing, 
Birds  their  clearest,  chanting 

For  the  Spring  : 
Ah,  we  too  forgive  her  ! 
Ah,  we  too  embrace  her  ! 
In  our  thrill  of  transport 

We,  too,  sing ! 


O  wild  azalea,  rosy  red, 
In  every  woody  hollow  ; 

Put  out,  put  out  your  pretty  head, 
That  I  may  see  and  follow  ! 

That  I  may  see  and  follow,  dear, 
That  I  may  see  and  follow  ! 


THE  QUEEN  OF    MAY. 

|HERE  the  quivering  sunbeam  glances 
Thro'  green  dells  and  mossy  glades, 
Where  the  breeze  so  gaily  dances 

In  among  the  cooling  shades, 
Happy  children  laugh  and  play, 
Clustered  round  their  Queen  of  May. 

On  the  young  grass  fresh  and  tender, 

Violets  blooming  at  her  feet, 
Tiny  form  so  still  and  slender, 

Tiny  face  so  fair  and  sweet ; 
Pure  and  plain  her  snowy  dress, 
Rare  her  childlike  loveliness. 

Drooping  wreaths  of  rosy  blossom 

Touch  the  cheek  more  pink  than  they, 

Dimpled  arms  and  creamy  bosom 
Hath  the  maiden  Queen  of  May  ; 

In  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  holding 

Branch  of  buds  scarce  yet  unfolding. 


3  2  THE  Q  UEEN  OF  MA  Y. 

Sea-blue  eyes  of  wondrous  clearness, 
Clustering  ringlets,  chestnut  brown  ;— 

Three  years  old  !  how  bright  and  fearless  ! 
Well  she  merits  such  a  crown  ; 

Pleased,  yet  shy,  she  smiles  to  me, — 

Quaint  her  baby  dignity. 

In  love  only  would  she  school  us, 
Worthy  of  a  May-tide  reign  ; 

With  a  flowery  rod  she'd  rule  us, 
Bind  us  with  a  flowery  chain  ; 

Still,  so  strong  her  sweet  spells  be, 

From  her  feet  we  cannot  flee. 

Yet,  my  Queen,  none  reign  forever, 
-  Quickly  speed  our  sunniest  hours  ; 
Would  no  weight  might  press  thy  forehead 

Heavier  than  thy  wreath  of  flowers  ! 
Taste  thy  joys,  while  yet  they  stay, 
O  beloved  Queen  of  May  ! 


CONTRADICTIONS. 

|KIES  all  of  grey  and  blue, 

Skies  all  of  clouds  and  rifts, 
Where  gleaming  sunlight  shifts 
Tremblingly  thro'. 

Skies  tender  daffodil  ; 

Dark  mists  bright  tips  disclose, 
Clear  silver,  amber,  rose, — 

Drink,  eyes,  your  fill ! 

Dense  vapors  o'er  us  rolled, 

Quick  raindrops  patter  down, 
Sprinkling  a  starry  crown — 
Showers  of  gold  ! 

Brightest,  and  best,  and  last, 
The  rainbow's  arch  is  seen 
O'er  meadows  freshly  green, — 
Our  sunset's  past. 


JUNE  COMES  IN  TO-MORROW. 

IOMPANIONS  sweet, 

Why  do  you  weep, 
And  where  is  cause  for  sorrow  ? 
"  Alas,  the  May 
Goes  out  to-day  : — " 
But  June  comes  in  to-morrow  ! 

The  glorious  June  ! 

With  love  and  tune 
It  must  not  bring  us  sorrow  ; 

Weep  not,  tho'  May 

Goes  out  to-day, 
For  June  comes  in  to-morrow  ! 

Why  should  we  mourn 

When  life  is  gone, 
This  life  so  mixed  with  sorrow  ? 

What  tho'  our  May 

Goes  out  to-day, — 
Our  June  comes  in  to-morrow  ! 


JUNE. 

JUNE  !  June  !  jubilant  June  ! 

How  shall  I  sing  thee,  or  what  can  I  say  ! 
All,  all,  list  to  thy  call, 
Lost  in  the  spell  of  a  soft  summer's  day. 
Come  up,  come  up  from  the  meadows  sweet, 
And  our  quickened  pulses  throb  and  beat  ; — 
Come  down,  come  down  from  the  woodlands  green, 
Arid  we  hail  thee  as  our  queen  ! 

Enchanting  in  beauty,  bewitching  in  grace, 
In  freshness  and  tenderness  pure  and  complete, 

Enraptured,  we  rest  in  thy  loving  embrace, 
We  joyously  greet  thee,  we  kneel  at  thy  feet  : — 
Beauteous  bloom  of  all  the  year, 
June  is  here  ! 

For  stately  trees  in  rich  array  ; 
For  sunlight  all  the  happy  day  ; 

For  blossoms  radiant  and  rare  ; 

For  skies,  when  daylight  closes  ; 
For  joyous,  clear,  out-pouring  song, 
From  birds  that  all  the  greenwood  throng  ; 


36  JUNE. 

For  all  things  young,  and  aright,  and  fair 
We  praise  thee,  month  of  roses ! 

For  blue,  blue  skies  of  summer  calm  ; 
For  fragrant  odors,  breathing  balm  ; 

For  quiet,  cooling  shades  where  oft 

The  weary  head  reposes  ; 
For  brooklets  babbling  thro'  the  fields, 
Where  Earth  her  choicest  treasures  yields ; 
For  all  things  tender,  sweet  and  soft  ; 
We  love  thee,  month  of  roses  ! 

Smile,  smile,  on  Britain's  isle  ! 

Smile,  smile,  on  Europe's  main  ! 
But  here,  but  here,  we  hold  thee  dear, 

Smile  on  us  once  again  ! 
For  Berkshire  Hills  full  well  do  know 
The  winter's  cold  and  winter's  snow, 
And  with   thy  smile,  a  happier  throng 
Shall  r  .  Jl  the  glad,  exultant  song  :— 

Beauteous  bloom  of  all  the  year, 
June  is  here  ! 


A  SONG  TO  SUMMER. 

SUMMER  !  thy  heart  is  all  too  glad , 

Thy  thoughts  are  all  too  bold, 
Thou  art  too  eager,  thy  hopes  are  mad, — 
My  heart  is  calm  and  cold. 

Plush  that  rich  music  from  ripe  red  lips  ! 

Those  burning  glances  are  lost  on  me, — 
They  will  not  melt  this  heart  of  ice — 

They  cannot  melt  it  and  set  me  free. 

Thou  canst  not  move  me  to  smiles  or  tears — 

How  foolish  and  fond  thou  art  ! 
Thou  canst  not  ravish  these  deaf,  cold  ears, 

Thou  canst  not  thrill  this  heart. 

Thy  wreath  of  roses  is  heavy  to  wear, 

It  will  not  rest  on  this  calm,  cold  brow, — 

A  circlet  of  ice  would  better  suffice — 
I  would  it  were  clasped  there  now  ! 

I  find  insipid  thy  changeless  sweet, 

And  long  for  the  respite  that  pain  will  give  ; 


38  A   SONG  TO    SUMMER. 

Thy  restless  breezes,  thy  fever  heat, 

Know  not  the  shadow  where  I  would  live. 

I  love  not  the  color  that  mantles  thy  cheek, 

I  love  not  the  fragrance  and  warmth  of  thy  breath  ; 

The  face  I  would  see  should  no  vain  beauty  seek, 
As  pale  as  a  snow  drift,  as  haggard  as  Death. 

Go,  go  !  cruel  Summer  !  hide,  hide  that  fair  face  ! 

Leave   thy  parching  domain   and  thy  withering 

throne  ! 
Come,  Winter  !  I  wait  for  thine  icy  embrace,— 

The  chill  of  thy  bosom  responds  to  mine  own. 


ASHES    OF  ROSES. 

|OFT  on  the  sunset  sky 
Bright  daylight  closes, 
Leaving,  when  light  doth  die, 
Pale  hues  that  mingling  lie, — 
Ashes  of  roses. 

When  Love's  warm  sun  is  set, 
Love's  brightness  closes  ; 
Eyes  with  hot  tears  are  wet, 
In  hearts  there  linger  yet 
Ashes  of  roses. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

|N  the  waving  fields  of  the  ripened  grain, 
__  That  ripple  and  roll  o'er  the  fertile  plain  ; 

On  their  broad  full  sweep,  and  their  ample  soom, 
Shines  the  rich,  round  globe  of  the  harvest  moon. 

On  the  golden  sheaves  of  garnered  wheat, 

On  the  bearded  rye,  in  stacks  complete, 

On  the  fresh  buckwheat  with  its  pink-white  bloora 

Smiles  the  fair  round  face  of  the  harvest  moon. 

On  the  busy  reapers,  with  hearts  so  light, 
Binding  the  sheaves  thro'  the  early  night, 
Merrily  humming  a  merry  tune  ; 
Looks  the  well-pleased  face  of  the  harvest  moon. 

On  the  anxious  owner,  with  busy  care, 
Proudly  surveying  the  richness  there  ; 
Driving  away  all  thought  of  gloom, 
Beams  the  kindly  smile  of  the  harvest  moon. 


THE  ASTER. 

iLD  are  its  footsteps  in  loneliest  places, 
Scaling    the   steep    crag    and    climbing 

height ; 

Blossoming  over  with  fairest  young  faces, 
Up  the  woodlands  and  far  out  of  sight. 

Light  is  its  tread  on  the  broad  gracious  meadow, 
Fringing  the  hedge-rows  with  purple  and  gold  ; 

Clustering  softly  in  stillness  and  shadow, 
Freely  and  freshly  its  fringes  unfold. 

Close  by  the  brookside  'tis  twining  and  bending, 
Tenderly  o'er  the  fair  waters  to  lean  ; 

With  the  fresh  current  its  life-blood  is  blending,— 
Pale,  scattered  petals  drift  down  the  cold  stream 

Blossom  on  blossom  crowds  fairer  and  faster, 
Rich  and  yet  simple  its  tint  and  array  ; — 

Drink  we  a  health  to  the  wild  mountain  aster, 
Star  of  the  forest,  the  bank  and  the  brae  ! 


DEAD   LEAVES. 

IHE  forests  that  with  Springtime  were  bursting 
_J         into  light, 
And   spread  to  full,  free  Summer  their  canopies 

of  green, 
Fall,  Nature's  artist,  painted  with  colors  rich  and 

bright, 

And  all  the  Autumn  landscape  in  warmest  hues 
.was  seen. 

They  burned   in    gold   and   crimson,  they   burned 

themselves  away, 
It  left  them  brown  and  shrivelled,  their  panoply 

of  flame  ; 

They  danced  upon  the  rattling  boughs,  they  car 
peted  the  way, 

They  flung  themselves  upon  the  breeze  without  a 
home  or  name. 

We  call  them  dead  :  they  rustle  down  and  lie  be- 

neath  our  feet, 

They  cover  all  the  frosty  ground,   they  fill  the 
chilly  air, 


DEAD  LEA  VES.  43 

And    tho'  our  tread  above  them    seem  softer   and 

more  sweet, 

The   trees    that    once    have    loved    them    stand 
desolate  and  bare. 

We  call  them  dead  :  the  dying  year,  perchance,  may 

think  them  so, 
But  a   newer  year   will    find    them    with    newer 

beauties  rife, — 
When  the  sweet  arbutus  opens,  and  the  early  violets 

blow, 

They  draw  from  last  year's  leafy  mould  their  sus 
tenance  and  life. 


THE   FAREWELL   OF   THE    SEASONS. 

WINTER. 

STILL,  chill  eve,  'twas  Winter's  last— 

My  brow  throbbed  hot  and  high  ; 
The  silent  hours  were  ebbing  fast, 
As  thro'  the  door  I  lightly  passed 
Beneath  the  gloomy  sky. 

I  gazed  upon  the  frosted  lawn, — 

When  lo  !  in  blank  dismay 
I  saw  a  surging,  ghostly  throng, — 
With  muffled  step  they  moved  along; 

Silent  and  strange  were  they. 

And  at  their  head  they  still  bore  on, 

Bore  on,  with  faithful  pride, 
An  old,  old  man  in  long,  white  gown— 
His  keen,  blue  eyes  pierced  to  my  own  ; — 
"  Lo,  Winter  comes  !  "  they  cried. 

The  snow  lay  deep  ;  the  moon  so  pale 
Shed  faint  her  ghastly  light ; 


WINTER.  45 

Hushed  into  awe  was  every  gale  ; — 
He  rose— I  heard  his  mournful  tale 
Ring  on  the  listening  night. 

He  said—"  There  is  a  fatal  call, 

That  fatal  call  hear  I, 
Yea,  all  must  hear  it,  one  and  all ; 
Each  in  his  time  must  fade  and  fall. 

Must  pine,  and  droop,  and  die. 

"  I  hear  the  footsteps  of  the  Spring, 

I  feel  her  fragrant  breath  : 
New  hopes,  new  pleasures  she  will  bring, 
New  songs  her  happy  birds  will  sing, 
When  I  am  cold  in  death. 

"  If  you  have  loved  me,  love  me  still, 

If  you  have  hated,  hate,— 
I  never  sought  to  do  you  ill, 
Only  my  mission  to  fulfill, — 
'Now,  called,  I  cannot  wait." 

The  clock  struck  twelve— he  waved  his  hand, 

I  heard  him  speak  no  more  ; — 
Gone  !  he  is  gone  !     A  merry  band 
Ye  shout  the  new  friend  o'er  the  land  ; 
I  weep  the  friend  of  yore. 


46          THE  FAREWELL  OF  THE  SEASONS. 
SPRING. 

The  air  was  fresh,  and  warm  the  night, 
The  grass  and  leaves  were  green, 

The  moon  shed  forth  her  clear,  soft  light  ; 

So  ever  pure,  and  calm,  and  bright, 
Spring's  last,  divinest  scene. 

When  sudden  on  the  stillness  broke 

The  sound  of  fairy  horn  ; 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  echoes  woke, 
Then  faint,  more  faint,  in  whispers  spoke, 

And  died  as  they  were  born. 

I  felt  a  quiver  in  the  air, 

A  step  scarce  brushed  the  grass  ; 
A  stately  form,  so  tall  and  fair, 
A  lovely  face,  beyond  compare  : — 

Spring  !  Spring  !  I  saw  her  pass  ! 

Clad  dryad-like,  a  belt  of  gold 

Her  gown  of  green  confined, 
A  wreath  of  flowers  and  ferns  enrolled 
Drooped  o'er  her  brow  of  dainty  mould; 
Her  brown  locks  flowed  behind. 

In  her  clear  eyes  of  sky-born  blue 
A  tender  gladness  shone, 


SPAING.  47 

Tear-dropt,  like  violets  wet  with  dew  ; 
Yet  sad,  and  sweet,  and  strange,  and  true, 
Came  forth  her  farewell  tone. 

"  Past,  past,"  she  said,  "  are  Springtide's  hours; 

Pale  dawn  of  Summer  days  ! 
I  rear  the  buds  with  sun  and  showers, 
And  Summer  turns  them  into  flowers — 

To  which  belongs  the  praise  ? 

"  From  regions  of  eternal  Spring, 
Love-armed,  I  sally  forth  ; 
Youth,  hope  and  loveliness  I  bring, 
With  birds  that  happy  carols  sing, 
To  cheer  the  snow-bound  North. 

"  Your  weary,  dreary,  frozen  land 
I  tear  from  Winter's  grasp  ; 
His  cruel  winds  and  storms  withstand, 
Till,  drawn  frcm  out  his  icy  hand, 
You  feel  my  gentler  clasp. 

"And  yet  you  taunt,  and  call  me  slow, 

And  mock  my  patient  care, 
As  if  from  Winter's  frost  and  snow 
At  once  the  trees  their  leaves  could  show, 

And  flowers  bloom  everywhere. 


43         THE  FAREWELL  OF  THE  SEASONS. 

"  Still,  Earth  I  love,  and  tend,  and  own, 

I  make  it  fair  and  sweet ; 
Then  lay  my  finished  work  adown, 
To  shine  in  Summer's  glorious  crown, 
And  blossom  'neath  her  feet. 

"  When,  with  glad  song  and  lightsome  tread, 

Your  hearts  to  June  ye  bring  ; 
Her  throne  above  my  fallen  head,— 
Forget  not  then  what  I  have  said, 
The  farewell  voice  of  Spring." 

She  spread  her  wings  and  upward  flew  ; 

Her  form  grew  faint  and  far  : 
'Twas  midnight— from  the  deepening  blue 
A  midnight  token  proved  her  true— 

A  single  falling  star. 

SUMMER. 

The  sun  had  shone  the  livelong  day 

Thro'  cloud-veils  misty  white, 
And  now  the  fair  moon's  fainter  ray 
Like  snow  upon  the  meadows  lay  ; 
Subdued  and  pale  her  light. 

The  wayward  breezes  whispered  low, 
And  sighed  in  anxious  pain  ; 


SUMMER.  49 

The  roses  lost  their  joyous  glow, 
All  Nature  breathed,  above,  below, — 
"  Sweet  Summer,  come  again  !  " 

Forth  from  the  dusky  robe  of  Night 

There  broke  a  dazzling  gleam, — 
A  sunny  head,  so  fair,  so  bright, 
All  crowned  with  waves  of  quivering  light, 
And  garlanded  with  green  ! 

Her  large,  soft  eye  of  liquid  hue, 

Tho'  ofttimes  clear  and  glad 
With  youth's  delights,  its  sorrows  knew  ; 
And  now,  tho'  kind  and  tender  too, 

Its  every  look  was  sad. 

A  rosebud  mouth,  a  blooming  cheek, 

A  brow  so  pure  and  low, — 
With  eager  eyes  her  charms  I  seek, 
And  long  to  hear  those  red  lips  speak, 

And  Summer's  song  to  know. 

I  look,  I  listen  and — I  hear  ! 

That  clear  and  gracious  voice, 
Those  words  from  one  I  hold  so  dear, 
They  draw  the  smile,  the  sigh,  the  tear  ; 

They  sadden  and  rejoice. 


50  THE  FAREWELL  OF  THE  SEASONS. 

"  Farewell  !  "  she  said,  "  my  friends  I  greet ; 

How  little  time  it  seems 
Since  ye  were  falling  at  my  feet, 
And  I  was  crowned  with  roses  sweet, 

And  lapt  in  blissful  dreams. 

"  Ah  !  well  for  me  the  rising  tear 

May  dim  those  joyous  eyes  ! 
The  happy  climax  of  the  year, 
All  Nature  holds  most  rich  and  dear, 
With  me  regretted  dies. 

"  And  if  I  merit  aught  of  praise 
Your  love  on  me  bestows, 
One  only  last  request  I  raise  : — 
Remember  me  thro'  Autumn  days, 
Thro'  Winter's  cruel  snows. 

"  Another  year  I  come  again, 

To  rule  you  as  before  :— 
One  last  farewell,  one  dying  strain 
Breathed  softly  o'er  the  silent  plain — 
And  she  was  seen  no  more. 

AUTUMN. 

With  lashing  wind  and  sleety  rain 
The  dreary  midnight  fell,— 


A  UTUMN. 

A  strange  excitement  filled  my  brain, 
I  could  but  wish  to  hear  again 
A  Season's  last  farewell. 

So  out  upon  the  porch  I  stept 

From  parlors  light  and  warm  : — 
A  fleeting  Figure  by  me  swept, 
A  wondrous  Presence  near  me  kept, 
Dim  outlined  thro'  the  storm. 

The  passion  of  his  mournful  cry 
I  would  you  might  have  heard  ; 

0  that  rich  voice,  so  deep  and  high, 
That  seemed  to  rend  the  very  sky, 

Gave  power  to  every  word  ! 

"  O  man  !  man  !  man  !  whose  petty  cares 

Your  selfish  brains  so  fill, 
The  music  of  the  mighty  spheres, 
The  magic  of  the  fleeting  years, 

Leave  ne'er  a  thought  or  thrill  ! 

"I  speak  not  for  myself  alone, 

That  you  may  love  me  more, — 

1  would  that  you  should  learn  to  own, 
And  to  revere  the  mighty  throne, 

Where  reign  the  Seasons  four. 


52          THE  FAREWELL  OF  THE  SEASONS. 

"  I  want  a  heart's  responsive  glow 

To  every  new  delight ; 
As  changing  seasons  onward  go, 
In  sweet  accordance  may  they  flow, 
In  peace  with  man  unite. 

"While  Springtime  conquered  Winter  wild, 

Preparing  Summer's  way, 
I  weaned  your  hearts  from  Summer  mild, 
And  yet  to  Winter  reconciled, 
With  tenderest  delay. 

"  I  would  you  should  extend  your  cares 

Beyond  mere  petty  gains  ; 
The  music  of  the  heavenly  spheres, 
The  magic  of  the  varying  years, 

Be  more  than  empty  names. 

"  And  lastly,  may  you  find  a  tongue 

In  every  flake  or  flower, 
Remembering  long  the  meaning  wrung 
From  accents  of  an  unknown  tongue, 
That  speaks  to  you  this  hour." 

A  sudden  gust  flew  whistling  by, 

I  caught  an  eager  breath- 
Mixed  with  gray  clouds  that  dimmed  the  sky, 
I  saw  a  misty  Figure  lie, 

Tossed  in  a  stormy  death. 


"TOUCH  US  GENTLY,  GENTLY,  TIME." 

[N  the  spring  of  early  years, 

With  its  budding  hopes  and  fears  ; 
In  the  summer's  glowing  prime  ; 
In  the  autumn's  lonely  grief, 
Fading  light  and  falling  leaf  ; 
Touch  us  gently,  gently,  Time. 

On  the  bud  of  promise  sweet 
Lavish  no  too  fervent  heat, — 

Clearly,  purely,  softly  shine  ; 
Let  not  childhood  lose  too  soon 
All  its  fresh,  unconscious  bloom  ; 

Touch  us  gently,  gently,  Time. 

Let  no  maddening  bliss  or  pain, 
Let  no  hot  impatience  stain 

A  serenely  golden  prime  : 
Soothe  with  cool,  soft  fingers  now 
Throbbing  heart  and  burning  brow  ; 

Touch  us  gently,  gently,  Time. 


54     "  TOUCH  US  GENTLY,  GENTLY,   TIME." 

Let  no  dark  forebodings  fill, 
Startle  by  no  sudden  chill 

Of  a  harsh,  capricious  clime  ; 
Lead  us  by  thy  quiet  ways, 
Frosty  nights,  and  mellow  days  ; 

Touch  us  gently,  gently,  Time. 

When  our  harvest's  reaped  at  last, 
Hopes  fulfilled,  and  labors  past, 

Softly  bright  our  years'  decline  ; 
Let  our  spent  life  glide  away 
Like  an  Indian  Summer's  day  ; 

Touch  us  gently,  gently,  Time. 

Twilight  shadows  o'er  us  creep— 
We  are  weary  ;  let  us  sleep  : 

Farewell  Earth,  and  all  that's  thine ! 
Now,  while  here  our  eyelids  close 
In  a  last,  a  long  repose, 

Close  them  gently,  gently,  Time. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

IS  Christmas  Eve.  The  twilight  creepeth  stilly, 

To  hush  with  restful  calm  the  busy  day  ; 
O'er  snow-lapt  fields  the  darkness  gathers  chilly, 
And  slowly  fades  the  sunset's-paling  ray. 

Hushed  is  the  household's  varying  commotion, 

And  silently  about  the  fire  we  sit ; 
Loosed  is  the  tension  of  a  strained  emotion, 

The  chord  of  life  with  which  our  hearts  are  knit. 

The  flickering  firelight,  and  the  shadows  falling, 
We  follow  with  unconscious,  dreamy  gaze, 

The  living  present  lost  in  dim  recalling 
The  joys  or  sorrows  of  our  bygone  days. 

'Tis  Christmas  Eve  !     A  sacred  peace  is  stealing 
Upon  the  aching  heart,  and  weary  brain, 

An  undefined,  a  sweet  and  holy  feeling 

Stills  the  quick  throbbing  of  a  restless  pain. — 


56  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

We  lost  Thee  in  the  hour  of  dark  temptation, 
Forgot  to  look  for  succor  from  above, — 

We  find  Thee,  O  our  heart's  Divine  Salvation  ! 
Bring  Thy  sweet  messages  of  peace  and  love  ! 


LIFE  IN  DEATH. 

[OLDEN-GLEAMING,  silver-shining, 

Soft  with  amethyst's  purple  light. 
Tenderly  the  twilight  shadows 
Deepen  into  night. 

Flaming  crimson,  amber  yellow, 
Brighten  round  us  far  and  near  ; 

Autumn  with  her  richest  glories 
Lights  the  dying  year. 

Why  should'st  thou,  O  man  immortal  ! 

Dim  thy  sunset's  farewell  ray, 
Darken  Death's  mysterious  portal — 

Gate  to  endless  day  ! 


TRANSFIGURED. 

|ILENTLY  away,  away, 

Glides  the  day, 
Underneath  her  misty  robes, 
All  of  grey. 

Close  her  dark  mists  settle  down, 
O'er  the  crown 

Of  the  mountains,  tipped  with  clear 
Golden  brown. 

Ah,  what  ray  so  glad  and  bright 
Cheers  my  sight  ? 

Parting,  breaking,  see  the  clouds 
Fringed  with  light ! 

Soft  and  clear  the  sunset  air ! 
Fresh  and  fair 

Dreamy  hues  that  blush  and  mingle, 
New  and  rare  ! 


TRANSFIGURED.  59 

Robed  in  purple,  glides  the  day 
Still  away, 

At  her  feet  red  roses  tremble 
In  the  grey. 


A  BROOK  LIFE. 

]AR,  far  up  on  the  distant  mountain, 

Deep  in  a  forest  wild  and  lone, 
Bubbling  out  in  the  shaded  stillness, 

Welling  up  by  a  mossy  stone  ; 
Overflowing  its  cool,  green  basin, 

Trickling  out  in  a  tiny  rill, 
Creeping  under  the  tangled  brushwood, 
Threading  its  way  adown  the  hill  ; 

Widening  out  into  sunny  shallows, 

Gurgling  down  in  some  hidden  deep, 
Foaming  over  the  rocky  ledges, 

Murmuring  on  thro'  the  fields  asleep  ; 
Filling  the  cups  of  the  lowly  flowers, 

Bathing  the  feet  of  the  stately  trees, 
Winding  and  leaping,  twisting  and  turning, 

Babbling  of  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  bees; 

Hurrying  down  the  rugged  mountain, 

Dipping  into  the  gentle  dale, 
Growing  quieter,  calmer,  deeper, 

Over  the  slopes  of  the  peaceful  vale  ; 


A  BROOK  LIFE.  6 1 

Yet  with  a  dash  of  its  wide,  wild  freedom, 

Yet  with  a  freshness  all  its  own, 
Under  its  mellow,  musical  murmur 

Ringing  out  in  a  clearer  tone  ; 

Flowing  on  thro'  the  fair,  bright  morning, 

Flowing  still  thro'  the  noonday  heat, 
Cooling  the  parched  lips,  gently  laving 

Aching  forehead  and  fevered  cheek  ; 
Bringing  a  draught  of  pure,  sweet  water 

Down  to  the  dry  and  dusty  plain  ; 
Bringing  a  breath  of  life  and  freshness, 

Cheering  anew  the  languid  brain  : 

Slowly  growing  a  mighty  river, 

Broad,  and  gracious,  and  deep,  and  grand, 
Gladdening  every  thirsty  valley, 

Watering  all  the  barren  land  ; 
Gathering  in  to  its  rolling  volume 

Baby  streamlets  from  hill  and  dale, 
Bearing  up  on  its  swelling  bosom 

Bounding  bark  and  shifting  sail : 

Yet  with  its  great  force  pressing  onward 

Over  the  country,  far  and  wide, 
Freighted  with  human  lives  and  fortunes, 

Reaching  at  last  the  ocean  side  ; 


62  A  BROOK  LIFE. 

Giving  at  last  its  whole  existence, 

Fresh,  and  constant,  and  pure,  and  free, 

Into  the  blue  gulf  yet  unfathomed, 
Into  the  depths  of  the  boundless  sea. 


THE    FIRST  FLOWERS. 

|HEN  our  eyes  are  weary,  weary 

Of  the  brown  and  barren  fields, 
When  we  yearn  with  tender  longing 

For  the  bloom  that  summer  yields, 
O   what  new  and  sudden  rapture 
Makes  our  languid  pulses  start, 
As  we  find  the  first  spring  flowers, 
Dearest  to  the  hungry  heart  ! 

Then  the  banks  are  golden-studded. 

Where  the  brown  brook  babbles  by, 
And  the  wooded  slope  beyond  it 

Gives  a  dream  of  April  sky, 
In  the  blossoms  closely  crowded, 

Purple,  blue,  and  cloudy  white, 
Clustered  deep  in  silent  shadow, 

Touched  with  bloom  of  softened  light. 

Then  the  starry,  fragile  wind-flower, 

Poised  above  in  airy  grace, 
Virgin  white,  suffused  with  blushes, 

Shyly  droops  her  lovely  face  ; 


64  THE  FIR ST  FLO  WER S. 

And  far  up  the  rugged  hillside, 
Spring  and  Hope  in  every  breath, 

Pure  and  perfect,  sweet  arbutus 
Twines  her  rosy-tinted  wreath. 

Flowers  of  spring,  O  first  and  fairest  ! 

Welcome  to  our  snow-bound  earth  ! 
No  rich  bloom  or  stately  splendor 

Can  eclipse  your  humble  birth  ; 
"Tis  a  new  and  sudden  rapture 

Makes  our  languid  pulses  start, 
When  we  find  the  first  spring  flowers, 

Dearest  to  the  hungry  heart. 


PAPA'S  BIRTHDAY. 

DEAR  Sky  Farm  !  O  rare  Sky  Farm  ! 

Rejoice,  to-day,  rejoice  ! 
Unite  your  many  tongues  to  ours 

In  one  harmonious  voice  ; 
Ye  winsome  warblers  of  the  wood, 

Pour  forth  your  clarion  lays, 
And  welcome  to  the  happy  earth 
This  happiest  of  days  ! 

For  'tis  the  anniversary 

Of  his  auspicious  birth, 
Who  singled  out  from  all  the  world 

This  cherished  spot  of  earth  ; 
Who  brought  a  loved  and  loving  wife 

To  grace  its  haunts  so  wild, 
And,  with  its  blessing,  thrice  became 

The  father  of  a  child. 

It  is  his  birthday  who  has  tilled 

Its  acres  broad  and  fair, 
Has  reaped  its  golden  harvest  fields, 

And  breathed  its  balmy  air  ; 


66  PAPA'S   BIRTHDAY. 

Whose  holy,  happy  home  it  is, 
With  mother,  children,  wife, 

Whose  vine-clad  cottage  crowns  the  hill, 
Brimful  of  health  and  life. 

O  dear  Sky  Farm  !  O  rare  Sky  Farm  ! 

Break  out  in  brighter  bloom, 
And  waft  o'er  all  the  emerald  fields 

Your  incense  of  perfume  ! 
Deep  heavens  of  celestial  blue, 

Watch  o'er  him,  guard  and  bless 
Thro'  many  a  sun-lit  birthday  more 

Of  love  and  happiness  ! 

May  warmer  union  bind  our  hearts 

Together  from  this  hour, 
And  draw  us  doser  to  our  farm 

With  deep  and  sacred  power ! 
Grant  every  highest,  purest  joy, 

Protect  from  every  harm, 
The  planter  of  our  precious  home, 

The  founder  of  Sky  Farm  ! 


MY  WINDOW  CURTAIN. 

'ET  others  round  their  windows 

Loop  folds  of  flimsy  lace, 
And  on  the  gauzy  network 

Their  clumsy  patterns  trace, 
Shut  out  the  glorious  sunlight, 
The  breezy  hills  and  glades, 
And  o'er  the  gleaming  crystal 
Draw  down  their  painted  shades. 

My  own  secluded  chamber, 

On  mountain  slopes  apart, 
My  deftly  hidden  loophole, 

Boasts  no  such  studied  art ; 
'Tis  but  on  windy  mornings, 

In  silver-sheeted  rains, 
I  draw  the  blinds  together, 

Replace  the  tiny  panes. 

And  yet  no  glare  of  daylight 

My  little  nest  invades, 
No  curious  eye  can  spy  it, 

Or  pierce  its  chequered  shades, 


68  MY  WINDOW  CURTAIN. 

For  I,  too,  have  a  curtain 
Of  clearest,  deepest  green  ; 

More  fine  than  satin  damask 
Its  texture  and  its  sheen. 

Fresh  tendrils,  closely  clinging, 

Its  loose,  light  fabric  bind, 
A  net  of  twisted  branches, 

A  bower  of  leaves  behind  ; — 
A  golden  gleam  of  sunlight, 

A  breath  of  cooling  air, 
A  snatch  of  happy  music 

Await  my  presence  there. 

Between  the  leafy  arches 

I  gaze  on  new  delight, 
On  mountain  slopes  of  grandeur, 

On  meadows  daisy- white  ; — 
Let  others  drape  their  windows 

In  silks  and  gauzes  fine, 
Of  all  their  costly  curtains 

Not  one  can  rival  mine. 


LOVE'S  IMAGE. 

GAZE  in  thine  eyes,  my  darling, 
Gaze  deep  in  thy  lovely  eyes, — 
I  see  the  light  of  thy  girlish  grace, 
Of  tear  and  smile  a  vanishing  trace, 
Thy  dreamy  fancies,  thy  thoughts  refined, 
The  depth  and  strength  of  thy  noble  mind  ; 
Yet,  deepest  of  all,  thro'  the  quivering  maze 
I  pierce  with  an  earnest,  steady  gaze, 

0  deepest  of  all,  my  image  lies 

In  the  pure,  true  calm  of  thy  speaking  eyes  ! 

1  search  thro'  thy  heart,  my  darling, 
Search  deep  thro'  thy  loving  heart, — 
I  see  all  charity  for  thy  kind, 

All  wide  and  liberal  thought  I  find, 
I  see  thy  tenderness,  pure  and  free, 
Thy  faithful  friendship  and  sympathy  ; 
Yet,  deepest  of  all,  'mid  the  sacred  flame 
That  kindles  thy  cheeks  with  a  glowing  shame, 
O  deepest  of  all,  enshrined  apart, 
My  image  lies  in  thy  constant  heart  ! 


70  LOVES  IMAGE. 

I  gaze  in  thine  eyes,  my  darling, 

Gaze  deep  in  thy  lustrous  eyes, 

And  their  passionate  fervor  thrills  my  brain, 

Thrills  with  a  bliss  that  is  half  a  pain  ! 

Clear,  dilating,  with  tremulous  grace 

They  mirror  the  rapture  that  lights  my  face  : 

I  lift  my  head,  no  image  lies 

In  the  wondrous  depths  of  thy  liquid  eyes, — 

But  if  we  meet,  or  if  we  part, 

It  is  graven  deep  on  thy  faithful  heart ! 


TRANSPLANTED. 

|PON  the  velvet  carpet  of  the  grac-s, 
Wrought  close,  and  thick,  and  soft,  a  living 

green, 

She  lay  ;  a  lithe,  slight  figure,  finely  formed, 
Fashioned  in  supple  grace  and  slender  strength. 
A  rustic  sun-bonnet,  of  faded  brown, 
Half  hid  her  rippling  wealth  of  chestnut  hair, 
Shading  the  dreamy  gaze  of  liquid  eyes, 
Blue  as  the  skies,  and  clear  and  deep  as  they, 
With  all  their  changefulness  and  constancy. 
Her  soft  complexion,  tho'  by  nature  fair, 
Tanned  by  the  warm  sun  to  a  riper  brown 
That  only  deepened,  as  it  could  not  hide 
The  mantling  color  that  would  oft  suffuse 
The  smooth,  transparent  texture  of  her  skin. 
A  pair  of  red  lips,  soft   and  fresh  and  fine, 
And  sensitive  to  every  ruder  breath 
Or  deep  emotion.     Simple,  yet  intense 
The  clear-cut  outlines  of  her  youthful  face. 


72  TRANSPLANTED. 

The  sun-bonnet  that  o'er  her  head  was  thrown, 

Bounded  the  small,  yet  limitless  extent 

Of  her  horizon  : — one  fair  bit  of  sky, 

A  cloudless  sky  of  pure  and  perfect  blue, 

One  silken  tuft  of  grass,  one  modest  flower, 

One  vagrant  bee  that  murmured  in  its  cup, 

And  a  few  scattered  ears  of  ripening  grain, 

That  rippled  into  golden  wealth  beyond  ; 

With  summer  sunshine  brooding  over  all. 

On  these  she  gazed,  and  ever  as  she  gazed, 

Her  blue  eyes  widened  with  an  eagerness 

Betraying  the  deep  yearnings  of  her  soul, 

The  doubtful  wish  that  long  had  stirred  her  heart. 

She  longed,  but  knew  not  that  for  which  she  longed, 

That  larger  life,  that  fuller  harmony, 

Was  near  her  heart  and  ready  to  her  hand. 

Her  country  life  to  her  seemed  poor  and  mean 

Because  so  grandly  simple.     Restlessly 

She  beat  against  imaginary  wires, 

Seeking  for  what  the  world  calls  freedom  ;  not 

The  grand,  pure  freedom,  sacred  liberty, 

Of  Nature  on  her  mountain  heights,  alone. 

No  !  still  she  dreamed  her  life's  young,  foolish  dream 

Of  mighty  cities  and  of  mighty  men, 

And  fancying  in  the  great,  cold,  outside  world, 

Her  larger  feelings  might  find  larger  vent, 

With  sudden  fervor  she  resolved  to  go. 


TRANSPLANTED.  73 

And  so  she  went :  to  try  a  city  life, — 

In  fruitless  toil  and  dreary  dullness,  drain 

The  living  fonts  of  peace  and  purity, 

From  mother  Nature's  generous  bosom  drawn. 

Her  foot,  that  lightly  pressed  the  sloping  sward, 

Climbed  the  rough  crag,  or  thrid  the  tangled   wood, 

Robbed  of  its  careless,  graceful  freedom,  trod 

But  heavily  o'er  pavements  smooth  and  hard. 

Her  ear,  accustomed  to  no  harsher  sound 

Than  song  of  bird,  or  bubble  of  the  brooks, 

Tired  of  the  city's  rude,  unceasing  noise, — 

The  horse- cars,  grinding,  grinding  on  the  rails, 

The  voices,  voices,  voices  everywhere  ! 

Her  eye,  to  tender,  peaceful  landscapes  wont, 

Grew  weary,  with  a  dull,  continual  pain, 

Of  her  horizon,  bounded  by  the  high 

Red  walls  of  brick,  still  dismally  the  same, 

Bare,  unrelieved  and  staring  ugliness. 

The  petty,  trading  spirit  of  the  town 

But  filled  her  with  disgust.      Her  innocent  mind 

Had  little  known  of  stern  necessity, 

And  saw  in  it  a  greedy  worldliness. 

The  squalor,  dirt,  and  helpless  misery, 

Thrilled  all  her  soul  with  pity  so  intense, 

It  bled  almost  to  breaking  for  the  griefs 

She  felt  so  deeply,  yet  could  not  assuage. 

But  oh  !  the  malice,  scorn,  the  lies  and  thefts, 


74  TRA  NSPLA  N  TED. 

The  deeds  of  conscious  evil,  worst  of  all ! 
Painfully  foreign  to  her  fresh  young  heart, — 
So  clear,  and  pure,  and  truthful  in  itself, 
It  had  no  room  for  dark  suspicions,  in " 
Its  fearless  trustfulness  and  innocence. 
This  were  enough,  and  yet,  behind  it  all, 
A  deeper,  stranger  trouble  filled  her  breast. 
She  was  a  child  of  Nature.     She  had  lived 
For  twenty  years  in  her  secluded  home, 
And  everything  about  or  near  it,  lay 
At  her  heart's  core,  and  woven  in  her  life. 
She  was  a  child  of  Nature  from  her  birth  : 
Her  heart  and  mind,  her  face  and  figure  bore 
The  stamp  of  Nature's  coinage. 

Frank  and  free, 

Of  steadfast  truth,  of  simple  piety, 
Her  passions  glowed  deep  down  in  inner  fires, 
In  fervid  thoughts,  strong  and  intense  desires. 
She  felt  her  sad  mistake,  yet  would  not  turn, 
So  firm  the  will  beneath  her  slender  frame, 
Her  sensitive  and  shrinking  temperament, 
The  sense  of  pride,  the  tireless  energy, 
That  bore  her  up  when  hope  itself  gave  out. 
So  she  staid  on,  and  struggled  on,  and  wore 
Her  young  life  to  a  dreary  monotone. 

How  often  thro'  those  long  unhappy  years, 
The  eye  that  beamed  with  hopeful  eagerness, 


TRANSPLANTED.  75 

Had  quenched  in  bitter  tears  its  youthful  fires  ! 

How  often  had  that  sweet  and  sensitive  mouth 

Quivered  with  deep  emotion,  all  unshared, 

And  learned  at  last  from  hard  experience, 

The  firm-set  look  of  pain  too  closely  kept  ! 

The  Spring  could  wake  no  hopes  within  her  breast, 

Of  truer  labor  and  of  sweeter  rest  ; 

The  Summer  had  for  her  no  joyous  life, 

The  Autumn  fields  no  golden  harvest  bore, 

Nor  purple  fruitage  mellowed  to  her  hand  ; 

And  cruel  Winter,  cold,  and  hard,  and  bare, 

With  bitter  sharpness  closed  the  dreary  year. 

Intent  on  work  that  brought  no  recompense, 

She  could  or  would  not  see  where  lay,  for  her. 

The  only  field  of  simply  true  success. 

At  last  the  day  of  freedom  dawned.     There  came 

An  urgent  message  from  her  early  home, 

That  called  her  back,  — she  could  not  choose  but  go, 

Tho'  almost  dreading  such  a  sudden  rush 

Of  happy  memories  to  her  burdened  heart. 

But  when  she  saw,  above  the  sodden  plain, 

The  blue  soft  outlines  of  her  native  hills, 

When,  slowly  winding  up  the  steep  ascent, 

The  peaceful  heavens  high  above  her  bent, 

She  saw  the  waving  fields  of  ripened  grain, 

And  heard  the  music  of  the  shining  rills, 


?  TRANSPLANTED. 

The  noble  grandeur,  perfect  loveliness, 
The  power  to  thrill,  to  sanctify,  to  bless, 
The  breath  of  life,  the  influence  divine, 
Divinely  gracious,  bountiful  and  good, 
Roused  all  the  essence  of  her  womanhood, — 
She  felt  her  slackened  pulses  quicker  beat, 
The  warm  blood  started  to  her  pallid  cheek, 
The  old  light  flashed  within  her  darkened  eyes, 
And,  melted  in  a  flood  of  happy  tears, 
One  golden  hour  undid  the  work  of  years. 

Upon  the  velvet  carpet  of  the  grass, 

Wrought  close,  and  thick,  and  soft,  a  living  green, 

She  lay  ;  her  girlish  figure  grown  mature, 

With  well  developed  limbs  and  noble  curves  ; 

Her  massive  co  Is  of  hair  still  richly  brown, 

Tho'  bright  with  less  of  sunshine  than  before  ; 

The  same,  yet  not  the  same,  her  woman's  face, — 

Thro'  its  worn  outlines  shone  a  riper  grace 

Than  careless  youth  and  pleasure  can  bestow  ; 

Unlike  the  eager  asking  gaze  of  old, 

Her  eyes  met  yours  with  peaceful  earnestness  ; 

A  rich,  deep  color,  fair  as  that  which  glows 

Within  the  inmost  bosom  of  the  rose  ; 

A  glorious  Summer,  strong  in  honest  truth, 

Replaced  the  blushful  Spring  of  timid  youth. 


TRANSPLANTED.  77 

She  rose,  and  with  her  blue  eyes  heavenward  bent 

In  all  the  innate  power  of  true  intent, 

With  all  the  holy  fervor  of  a  prayer, 

She  breathed  her  soul  upon  the  listening  air  : — 

"  Where  Thou  hast  planted  me,  there  let  me  stay, 

My  heart  is  here,  here  would  I  live  and  die, 

And  never  turn  my  constant  gaze  away 

From  these  green  fields,  and  from  this  boundless  sky. 

My  work  is  here,  here  will  I  ever  strive 

To  use  the  precious  gifts  which  Thou  dost  give  ; 

No  vagrant  hopes  can  tempt  my  soul  to  roam, 

No  place  but  this  can  ever  be  my  home." 


THE  NINETEENTH  OF   JULY. 

|HE  woods  are  clothed  in  deepest  green, 

The  fields  are  sweet  with  hay, 
Cool  breezes  stir  the  sentient  air 

And  chase  the  heat  away  ; 
The  earth  lies  stretched  in  peaceful  calm 

Beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 
Upon  this  bright  midsummer  day, — 
The  nineteenth  of  July. 

The  year  is  at  its  zenith  now, 

The  earth  is  in  its  prime, 
Search  from  the  tropics  to  the  poles, 

You'll  find  no  fairer  clime  ; 
Upon  this  breezy  mountain  height, 

'Tis  ne'er  too  hot  or  dry, 
But  rich,  and  clear,  and  warm,  and  bright, — 

The  nineteenth  of  July. 

Yet  thoughts  and  mem'ries  dearer  far 

Enrich  these  festal  hours  ; 
The  smiles  and  kisses  they  provoke 


THE  NINETEENTH  OF  JULY.  79 

Are  sweeter  than  the  flowers  ; 

Glad  children  "  Happy  Birthday  !  "  call- 
Repeat  the  joyous  cry! 

It  is  the  birthday  of  us  all; — 
The  nineteenth  of  July. 

O  mother  dear,  we  vow  it  here, 

We  would  that  we  could  bring 
The  harvest  gold  of  half  the  world, 

Our  birthday  offering  ! 
Yet  if  you  will  but  take  in  love 

What  time  and  wealth  deny, 
You  still  shall  have  a  happy  day 

This  nineteenth  of  July. 


JEWELS. 

'HE  earth  is  a  glorious  jew^l,  deep  set  in  the 

.  vastness  of  space, 
In    the   burnished    gold  of  the  sunlight,    or   the 

beams  of  the  silver  moon, 
Girt  round  by  an  arch  of  sapphire,  of  a  pure  and 

constant  grace, 

Suffused  with  the  flush  of  dawning,  or  lost  in  an 
amber  gloom. 

The  emerald  slopes  of  summer  are  quick  with  the 

power  they  know, 
And  the  flowers  shine  like  gems    with    a   lustre 

purely  bright ; 
The  whole  wide  earth  seems  fused  in  a  passionate 

ruby  glow, 

With   a  jewel's   prisoned   power,    and   a  jewel's 
scatter'd  light. 

The  crystal  shine  of  Winter  is  clear  and  chaste  as  a 

pearl — 

As   the    shimmering   rows    of  pearls   that  droop 
from  the  ice-bound  sprays  ; 


JEWELS.  8 1 

Or  a  dazzling  gleam  of  sunlight  looks  down  thro'  the 

toss  and  whirl, 

And    the   cold   white  crust    is    shivered    with    a 
thousand  diamond  rays. 

The  soul  is  a  glorious  jewel,  in  a  wonderful  setting 

run  ; 
They're  the  same  vibrating  pulses  that  quicken 

and  stir  the  whole  ; 
Jewel  and  setting  together,  they  quiver  and  beat  as 

one, 

For  'tis  only  thro'  the  setting  that  we  may  see  the 
soul. 

And  some  have  souls  like  rubies,  intense  in  a  living 

glow, 
Strong  to  conquer  and  save,  in  a  deep  and  fervid 

might ; 
And  some  whose   brilliant  intellect  has  none  of  the 

heart's  warm  flow, 

Are  like  diamonds,  clear  and  cold,  flashing  out 
a  dazzling  light. 

Some  burn  like   the  fiery  opal,  now  kindling  into  a 

flame, 

Now  dying  down  to  the  embers,  yet  quick  with  a 
changeful  gleam  ; 


82  JEWELS. 

Full  of  artistic  spirit,  that  spirit  never  the  same, 
Living   half   in    a   sharp    reality,  and   half  in    a 
vivid  dream. 

And  some  have  the  strength  of  the  ruby,  its  strength 

and  constancy, 

With  the  frankness  of  the  emerald,  and  the  soft 
ness  of  the  pearl ; 
These  shine  like  radiant  sapphires,  with   Faith  and 

Charity, 

Beyond  the  common  ignorance,  above  the  common 
whirl. 

Yet    all    are    flawed   and    tarnished,  and    none    are 

sound  and  whole, 
Blurred  by   sorrow  and  sin  are  the  brightest  and 

best  of  them  ; 
Here  is  a  handsome  face  that  stands  for  an  empty 

soul, 

There  from    a   broken    setting   there    beams   a 
beauteous  gem. 

O    Father  !    when  Earth    and    her  jewels  are  scat 
tered  to  dust  and  decay, 

When  the  hearts  which  beat  warm  in  our  bosoms 
yearn  upward  and  pant  to  be  free, 


JEWELS.  83 

Then  pity  our  weakness  and  dullness,  and  gather 

Thy  jewels,  we  pray, 

O   gather  them  into   Thy  casket  and  keep  them 
forever  with  Thee  ! 

There  all  shall  be  polished  and   perfect,  and  pure 

of  all  tarnish  and  stain, 

Untrammelled  by  physical  struggle,    where  sick 
ness  and  sorrow  are  o'er  ; 
There,  set  in  the   light  of  Thy  presence,  afar  from 

earth's  anguish  and  pain, 

May  the  jewels  which  Thou  hast  created  shine 
bright  with  Thy  love  evermore  ! 


THISTLES  AND  ROSES. 

|PON  the  rugged  mountain  side, 
Uplifted  in  majestic  pride  ; 

A  squalid  hovel  stands  ; 
Of  aspect  rude,  and  harsh,  and  bare, 
No  fireside  fancies  cluster  there 
Of  cultured  thought  and  tender  care, 

Warm  hearts  and  loving  hands. 

The  shrunken  boards  are  black  with  rains  ; 
Old  rags  supply  the  missing  panes  ; 

The  unhinged  gate  swings  low, 
And  loosely  hangs  the  clinking  latch  ; 
Beyond,  a  shed  of  roughest  thatch, 
And  ragged,  cramped  potato  patch, 

The  farmer's  labor  show. 

A  bank  of  thistles,  prickly  red, 
A  large  and  lusty  burdock  bed, 

The  dingy  yard  adorn  ; 
A  clump  of  daisies,  run  to  seed, 


THISTLES  AND  ROSES.  85 

And  many  a  coarse,  ill-favored  weed, 
With  broken  dishes — rude  indeed, — 
A  garden  all  forlorn  ! 

Ten  years  pass  by.     Upon  the  hill 
The  home  of  man  is  standing  still, 

But  oh  how  great  a  change  ! 
Poised  lightly  on  the  wooded  crest, 
It  fronts  the  sunset-painted  west, 
And  breaks  with  outline  picturesque 

The  dusky,  rolling  range. 

Of  graceful  form,  of  mellow  tone  ; 
The  generous  windows,  open  thrown, 

Show  curtains  floating  white  ; 
The  porch  above  the  sunny  door, 
The  ivied  lattice  peeping  o'er, 
The  rustic  gate  that  stands  before, 

More  near  approach  invite. 

The  velvet  lawn,  well  kept,  tho'  small, 
Is  skirted  by  a  low,  broad  wall 

Where  bright  nasturtiums  cling  ; 
Here  bloom  red  roses,  dewy  wet, 
And  beds  of  fragrant  mignonette, 
In  glowing  gardens,  richly  set 

With  many  a  lovely  thing. 


86  THISTLES  AND  ROSES. 

There  purple  pansies,  quaint  and  low, 
Forget-me-nots  and  violets  grow, 

Or  stately  lilies  shine; 
Geraniums,  vivid  white  and  red, 
Frail,  bright-hued  poppies,  lightly  shed, 
And  clasping,  clinging,  overhead, 

Long  wreaths  of  tangled  vine. 

A  light  foot  threads  the  fragile  bowers, 
Two  slender  hands  are  filled  with  flowers, 

A  fair  face  all  aglow  ; 
A  soft  smile  curves  the  rosy  lips, 
To  round  red  cheeks  a  dimple  slips, 
In  liquid  eyes  the  glad  light  dips, — 

She  loves  her  garden  so  ! 

Poor  hut,  a  blot  on  nature's  face, — 
And  cottage  quaint,  of  cultured  grace, — 

A  contrast  sadly  wide  ! 
And  wider  still,  'twixt  beds  of  bloom, 
Of  lustrous  light,  or  softened  gloom, 
And  unkempt  yard  of  scanty  room, 

With  weeds  on  either  side. 

Yet  widest  'twixt  those  hearts  alone, 
Where  such  pure  light  has  never  shone, 
And  hearts  abloom,  aglow  : 


THISTLES  AND  ROSES.  8/ 

O  may  the  happier  lot  be  ours, 
To  live,  not  with,  but  thro'  our  flowers, 
That  soothe  our  griefs,  inspire  our  powers, — 
Because  we  love  them  so  ! 


TWIN  LAKES— WAUSHINING. 

[IGHT  on  the  velvet  turf  I  lie, 

Twixt  emerald  earth  and  sapphire  sky, 
Soft-shaded  'neath  the  spreading  trees, 
And  fanned  by  every  shifting  breeze. 

A  crystal  mirror,  finely  set 

In  mountains  dreamy  violet, 

The  lake's  broad  bosom  meets  my  view, 

As  pure  as  fair,  and  fair  as  true. 

Across  the  waters,  soft,  serene, 
An  island  lifts  its  line  of  green  ; 
Beyond  its  point  the  white  sails  fly, 
And  fishing  boats  at  anchor  lie. 

In  early  morn  how  still  it  lies  ! 
A  faint  blue  haze  'neath  hazy  skies, 
Hushed  in  a  languid  light,  to  seem 
A  dreaming  life  a  living  dream.  ' 


TWIN  LAKES—  WA  U SHINING. 

At  noon  it  takes  a  varying  hue 

Of  beryl  green,  or  liquid  blue, 

And  glistening  lower,  and  glancing  higher, 

It  flashes  up  its  silver  fire. 

Towards  night  the  white  clouds  denser  grow, 
And  from  their  caves  the  wild  winds  blow, 
And  heaving  swell,  and  rippling  tide, 
O'er  sea-green  waters  sinuous  glide. 

Thro'  wind  and  wave  the  quick  drops  fall, 
The  veil  of  mist  is  over  all, 
Thro'  flash  and  peal  the  dimples  play, 
The  whirling  eddies  lashed  to  spray. 

Night  comes  ;  clouds  break,  and  clear  the  way 
For  parting  signal-lights  of  Day, — 
The  lake's  calm  peace  is  ours  once  more — 
One  mantling  blush  from  shore  to  shore. 


THE  DEATH  OF  SUMMER. 

[HERE'S  a  brezk,  there's  a  pause 

In  the  Earth's  subtlest  laws, 
Since  her  fingers  relaxed  from  their  hold  ; 
There's  a  chill  in  the  air, 
Since  the  Form  lying  there 
Grew  suddenly  rigid  and  cold. 

There's  a  dark  shadow  lies 

On  the  blue  of  the  skies, 
Since  the  light  of  her  eyes  last  eclipse  ; 

There's  a  clasp  on  the  tongue, 

Since  the  songs  that  she  sung 
Were  locked  with  the  smile  on  her  lips. 

'Tis  the  lapse  of  an  hour, 

Ere  a  newly  crowned  power 
Shall  take  up  the  year's  broken  thread  ; 

She'll  withhold  the  warm  glow 

Of  the  presence  we  know, 
And  her  cheeks'  hectic  flush  give  instead. 


THE  DEA  Til  OF  SUMMER.  91 

Not  with  clear,  steady  light 

Will  she  dazzle  our  sight, 
But  with  one  brilliant  flash  of  her  eye  ; 

And,  too  late,  we  may  find 

We  have  left  life  behind, 
And  her  life  is  but  learning  to  die. 

But  till  then,  O  till  then, 

Let  us  weep  while  we  can, 
Let  us  weep  for  the  flower  of  the  tomb  ; 

For  the  red  rose  of  day 

That  has  faded  away, 
Ere  the  gentian  is  fairly  in  bloom  ! 

Let  us  weep  for  the  hair 

That  is  silvered  with  care  ; 
For  the  cheek  that  is  hollow  and  wan  ; 

For  the  worn  look  that  lies 

In  the  heavy-fringed  eyes  ; 
For  the  love  and  the  life  that  are  gone. 

For  the  false  color  weep 

That  will  kindle  that  cheek  ; 
The  false  light  that  will  flash  in  that  eye  ; 

For  the  false  flame  that  burns 

Till  to  ashes  it  turns, 
And  thus  teaches  Death  how  to  die. 


92  THE  DEA  TH  OF  SUMMER. 

For  \\-\Qyear  that  is  dead, 
Are  the  tears  which  we  shed 

When  June  and  her  roses  decay  ; 
And  if  Summer  departs 
From  the  staunchest  of  hearts, 

Its  life-blood  is  ebbing  away. 

So  we'll  close  up  our  eyes, 
That  no  light  on  them  rise 

Since  the  light  of  her  eyes  last  eclipse  ; 
And  we'll  tear  out  our  tongue 
For  the  songs  we  have  sung, 

And  die  with  her  smile  on  our  lips. 


O  loosely  swings  the  purpling  vine, 

The  yellow  maples  flame  before, 
The  golden-tawny  ash  trees  stand 

Hard  by  our  cottage  door  : 
October  glows  on  every  cheek, 

October  shines  in  every  eye  ; 
While  up  the  hill  and  down  the  dale 

Her  crimson  banners  fly  ! 


VISIONS  OF  AUTUMN. 

SEPTEMBER. 


in  a  liquid  calm  September  lies, 
Her  bosom  heaves  with  breathings  soft  and 

slow  ; 

The  palpitating  air  in  heart-warm  stillness  dies, 
And  brooding  peace  is  over  all  below. 

The  soft,  thick  tresses  of  her  auburn  hair 
Fall,  richly  massed,  about  her  shapely  head  ; 

Her  heavy  lashes  lie  dead  black  against 
A  cheek  of  olive,  quickened  with  fine  red. 

Or  when  she  lifts  her  luminous  blue  eyes, 
A  dreamy  languor  every  sense  pervades  ; 

The  ripe  lips  melt  in  dewy  tenderness, 
With  thrice  the  nameless  charm  of  earthly  maids. 

In  simple  russet  clad,  her  kirtle  laced 

With  dextrous  broidery  of  the  pallid  fern, 

A  twist  of  wild  clematis  round  her  waist,  — 

Clasped  in  her  tender  palm  bright  blossoms  burn. 


94  VISIONS  OF  A  UTUMN. 

Blow  softly,  wind,  nor  ruffle  that  rich  hair  ! 

Shine  warmly,  sun,  on  those  ambrosial  lips  ! 
Hush  !  break  not  yet  that  blest  repose,  nor  dare 

With  darksome  shadows  that  chaste  light  eclipse 

The  soft  south  wind  a  russet  drift  has  heaped  ; 

The  faint  south  wind  in  drowsy  murmur  dies  : 
O  would  no  wintry  chill  might  ever  reach 

Where,  tranced  in  liquid  calm,  September  lies  ! 

OCTOBER. 

Quick  with  the  breath  of  life,  October  stands, 
For  freedom,  strength  and  vigor,  past  compare  : 

In  queenly  state  she  rules  her  forest  lands, 
Where  maples  light  with  flame  the  frosty  air. 

In  fine  loose  ringlets  falls  her  chestnut  hair, 

And  clusters  round  her  frank,  undaunted  brow ; 

Her  eager,  earnest  eyes  are  quick  and  keen, 
Thro'  all  their  tender  depths  of  gentian  blue. 

The  pure  rich  blood  that  mantles  in  her  cheek, 
Stains  her  full  lips  with  crimson  warm  and  clear  ; 

Her  gracious,  generous  smile  itself  is  seal 
And  guerdon  of  a  golden  harvest  year. 


NOVEMBER.  95 

In  careless,  yet  most  bright  and  brave  attire  ; 

A  kirtle,  golden  brown  and  olive  green. 
A  tawny  yellow  jacket  fringed  with  fire, 

A  sweeping  mantle  with  a  purple  sheen. 

Blow  softly,  wind  !  one  rude  or 'reckless  breath 
Might  take  from  out  her  hair  its  silken  flow  ; 

One  dash  of  rain  might  drown  those  brave  blue  eyes, 
And  drain  from  cheeks  and  lips  their  living  glow. 

The  soft  south  wind  hath  flown  unheeding  by, 
And  swept  away  across  her  forest  lands  : 

O  would  no  ice-bound  spell  might  ever  lie 

Where,  quick  with  instant  life,  October  stands  ! 


NOVEMBER. 

Wrung  with  a  barren  grief,  November  lies, 
An  angry  tumult  raging  in  her  brain, 

Catching  her  broken  breath  in  shuddering  sighs, 
With  clenched  hands,  tossing  in  convulsive  pain. 

A  dull  dead  brown  her  strands  of  flying  hair, 
In  withered  heaps  of  loose  confusion  piled, 

Her  great  blue  eyes  fixed  in  a  glassy  stare, 
Have  vacant,  dumb  expression,  sad  and  wild. 


96  VISIONS  OF  A  UTUMN. 

Her  hollow  cheeks  are  haggard,  pale  and  wan, 
Her  white  set  mouth  no  woful  word  can  frame. 

From  cold  stiff  limbs  all  sense  of  life  is  gone, 
She  lies  bereft,  in  numb  unconscious  pain. 

A  shroud  of  gloomy  grey  about  her  thrown, 

Shields  her  slight  form  from  Autumn's  nipping  air, 

The  pale  witch-hazel's   scattered  light  alone 
Falls  on  the  brow  that  once  we  knew  so  fair. 

Blow,  bitter  wind  !  in  bitter  anguish  mourn  ! 

Wail,  shriek  and  wail  thy  weird  and  mystic  grief  ! 
Till  lightly  on  the  whirling  gust  upborne, 

Flutters  and  falls  the  last  forsaken  leaf. 

The  keen  northwind  hath  fainted  at  her  feet, 
And  breathed  its  burdened  heart  in  weary  sighs  : 

O  would  no  sharper  blast  might  ever  reach 
Where,  tranced  in  rigid  calm,  November  lies  ! 


THANKSGIVING. 

]CROSS  the  grey  November  sky, 

The  damp,  dense  clouds  are  drifting, 
Between  the  branches,  bare  and  high, 

The  powdery  snow  is  sifting  ; 
In  sheltered  hollows,  withered  leaves 

In  sodden  heaps  are  lying, 
And  underneath  our  vine-hung  eaves 
The  weary  wind  is  sighing. 

Then  why  thro'  all  the  misty  air 

These  clarion  church  bells  pealing  ? 
Why  brings  this  dull  day  everywhere 

Glad  bursts  of  grateful  feeling  ? 
Why,  why  are  all  the  pantry  shelves 

With  fruity  richness  teeming  ? 
And  whence  these  spicy-odored  pies, 

So  crisp  and  tender  seeming  ? 

Wisely  and  well,  in  earlier  times, 

This  happy  day  was  chosen, 
That  tho'  the  earth  grow  stiff  and  bare, 

Our  hearts  might  not  be  frozen  ; 


98  THANKSGIVING. 

That  fall  by  fall,  and  year  by  year, 
Kind  words  know  no  declining, 

The  wilder  storm,  the  warmer  cheer, 
Where  light  of  love  is  shining. 

When  Spring  leaps  forth  in  wood  and  field, 

Then  eager  hearts  are  springing  ! 
When  Autumn  doth  her  harvest  yield, 

What  rapture  marks  the  bringing  ! 
'Tis  bliss  enough  on  Summer  days, 

The  blind  delight  of  living  ; 
A  higher  joy  must  thrill  our  hearts, 

To  make  a  true  Thanksgiving. 

When  every  venture  prospers  well, 

And  every  wish  is  granted, 
When  constant  sunshine  seems  to  dwell 

O'er  souls  unchilled,  undaunted, 
The  fountains  of  a  grateful  love, 

In  grateful  hearts  are  welling, 
The  free,  unbidden  song  of  praise, 

Full  melody  is  swelling. 

But  when  dark  clouds  obscure  our  day, 
And  gathering  troubles  sadden, 

When,  plodding  on  our  weary  way, 
We  find  no  hope  to  gladden, 


THANKSGIVING.  99 

Then  comes  the  test  of  thankfulness, 

Then  comes  the  sharpest  trial, 
When  faith  alone  can  overcome 

A  cold  and  hard  denial ! 

O  !  let  us  hold  unruffled  still 

The  pure  peace  of  believing  ; 
The  clear,  rich  anthem  of  our  praise 

Be  free  from  notes  of  grieving  ; 
In  sweet,  serene  and  thankful  hearts 

Lies  all  the  joy  of  living  ; — 
Lift  pure  and  strong  your  choral  song, 

And  make  a  glad  Thanksgiving  ! 


THE  FARM  BEYOND  THE  HILLS. 

[KEEN  in  the  meadow  the  grass  upspringing, 
Clear  thro'    the  woodlands  the  birds'  glad 

singing, 
Fresh  young  life  to  the  cold  earth  bringing, 

Ripple  the  bubbling  rills  ; 
Strong  and  ardent  the  Summer's  glowing  ; 
Wan  and  withered  the  Autumn's  going ; 
Wild  and  wintry  the  cold  storm  beating, — 
But  all  slip  by  like  a  shadow  fleeting 

O'er  the  Farm  beyond  the  Hills. 

Sunlight  dazzles  and  tempests  shiver, 
Strong  is  the  action  of  wind  and  weather, 
Earth's  finest  fibres  to  scorch  and  sever 

With  the  might  of  many  wills  ; 
But  the  Frost  King's  breath  like  a  breath  is  over, 
And  the  veils  of  cloud  but  a  moment  cover, 
And  the  passionate  glow  of  a  noontide  burning 
Leaves  but  the  languor  of  distant  yearning, 

On  the  Farm  beyond  the  Hills. 


THE  FARM  BEYOND  THE  HILLS.          IOI 

With  the  dewy  roses  of  day-dawn  flushing  ; 
Thro'  the  limpid  air  of  the  morning  blushing  ; 
While  the  amber  wave  of  sunset  gushing, 

A  softened  glory  distills  ; 
In  melted  amethyst  mantling,  fainting; 
With  pearls  and  sapphires  the  cold  sky  painting  ; 
In  a  far-off  dream  of  blue  light  dying; 
Yet  still  with  an  unchanged  grandeur  lying 

On  the  Farm  beyond  the  Hills. 

Older  than  ruin  and  rust  of  ages, 

Wiser  and  purer  than  saints  and  sages, 

It  stands  where  the  rattle  of  rude  life  rages, 

Yet  the  realm  of  fancy  fills  ; 
Forever  constant,  and  true,  and  tender, 
Forever  grand  in  its  stately  splendor, 
Forever  chaste  in  its  curves  sublime, 
Thro'  the  depth  of  distance  and  flow  of  time, 

Is  the  Farm  beyond  the  Hills. 


HAPPY  BIRTHDAY  :  A  TWO-FOLD  SONG, 
i.  c.  c. 

R.  S.  G. 
DEC.    I4TH,   1877. 

(ERE'S  twice  the  greetings  two  have  known, 

With  twice  the  ardor  lent  to  one, 
In  double  measure,  doubly  done, 

We  wish  you  Happy  Birthday  ! 

Ring  out  your  voices  twice  as  clear 
As  two  could  make  them,  twice  a  year, 
Bring  twice  the  love  and  twice  the  cheer, 
To  this  twice  Happy  Birthday  ! 

What  double  tasks  to  rne  belong, 
With  two  to  swell  the  twice-told  wrong  ! 
How  shall  I  twist  my  two-fold  song, 
To  suit  this  Happy  Birthday  ? 

May  twice  the  joys  of  man  below, 
Be  yours  to  share  and  yours  to  know, 


HA  PP  Y  BIR  THDA  Y.  1 03 

With  two-fold  radiance  may  they  glow 
Thro'  many  a  Happy  Birthday  ! 

May  two  fast  friends,  where'er  they  meet, 
This  day  with  two-fold  gladness. greet, 
And  two  dear  lives  be  made  twice  sweet, 
Each  doubly  Happy  Birthday  ! 

Tho'  twice  as  shrill  the  wild  winds  blow, 
And  doubly  deep  the  cold  white  snow, 
No  storm  can  chill  the  two-fold  glow 

That  lights  this  Happy  Birthday. 

Then  twice  the  greetings  two  have  known, 
With  twice  the  ardor  lent  to  one  ; 
In  double  measure,  doubly  done, 

We  wish  you  Happy  Birthday  ! 


ROSE  LEAVES. 

|HE  crimson  petals  of  the  Rose, 

In  glowing  hues  how  richly  dressed  ! 
How  doth  each  regal  bloom  disclose 
A  mantling  blush,  a  warm  unrest  ! 

But  when  the  worn  and  withered  flower 

Is  of  her  royal  robes  bereft, 
How  passing  sweet  her  lasting  dower  ! 

How  pure,  how  rich  the  fragrance  left ! 

So  may  this  glad  and  glowing  day, 
Full  lightly  poised  on  restless  wing, 

With  eager  welcome  speed  away, 
And  rosy  greetings  blushing  bring. 

Then,  when  the  golden  sun  is  set, 
And  phantom  hours  glide  softly  by, 

May  breath  of  roses  haunt  us  yet, 
From  scattered  leaves  of  Memory. 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

]URN,  Christmas  lights,  burn  chaste  and  clear  ! 

Blaze  out  against  the  stormy  sky, 
From  windows  warm  with  Qwistmas  cheer, 

And  rosy  tapers  flaming  high  ! 
All  sparkling,  glowing  greetings  send, 
From  lip  of  love  and  heart  of  friend, 
And  bear  to  those  who  grieve  alone, 
Glad  tidings  sent  to  every  one. 

Peal,  Christmas  bells,  peal  loud  and  deep  ! 

Ring  out  a  merry  Christmas  chime, 
Till  darkened  eyes  forbear  to  weep, 

And  hard  hearts  glow  with  love  divine  : 
In  rippling  music  die  away, 
With  ringing  laughter  glad  and  gay, 
Till  rich  and  full  the  dark  night  swells,  • 
With  Christmas  lights  and  Christmas  bells  ! 


CHRISTMAS  POEM. 

THE  GUIDING  STAR. 

IHADOWS  close  and  darken  round  us 

Life  is  weary,  time  is  long  ; 
Thro'  the  beating  storms  of  winter, 

Pause,  and  listen  to  our  song  : 
We  are  watchers  on  the  mountains, 

Lonely,  gazing  near  and  far, 
Watching  for  the  promised  glory, 
Waiting  for  the  Guiding  Star. 

Whence  shall  come  the  light  to  cheer  us  ? 

Whither  shall  we  wend  our  way  ? 
Summer's  latest  rose  is  faded, 

Gone  the  last  faint  flush  of  day  ; 
Who  shall  tell  us  where  to  labor, 

Strive  in  peace,  or  strike  in  war  ? 
Come,  O  Herald  of  Salvation  ! 

Come  and  lead  us,  Guiding  Star  ! 


CHRISTMAS  POEM.  IO7 

Rising  thro'  the  clear  blue  ether, 

In  the  azure  depths  of  night ; 
Shining  with  a  holy  lustre, 

Large  and  pure,  and  calm  and  bright  ; — 
Lo  !  the  Star,  the  Star  of  Morning, 

Thro'  the  blue  depths  seen  afar  ! 
Feast  thine  eyes  upon  its  splendor. 

Gaze  upon  the  Guiding  Star  ! 

Still  it  moves,  it  journeys  onward, 

Over  hill,  and  rock,  and  glen  : 
Rise  and  follow  !  rise  and  follow  ! 

Waiting  women,  watching  men  ! 

O  O 

Onward,  swift  as  rushing  rivers, 

Scale  the  crag  and  leap  the  scar, 
Falter  not,  brave  heart,  and  faint  not, 

Follow  fast  the  Guiding  Star  ! 

Ye  that  seek  a  kingly  grandeur, 

Onward  still,  ye  cannot  stay  ! 
Ye  that  boundless  wealth  would  gather, 

Turn,  and  seek  an  easier  way  ; 
But,  O  loving  hearts  and  faithful, 

Following  Jesus  fast  and  far, 
Pause  and  see,  o'er  yonder  village, 

Rests  at  last  the  Guiding  Star. 


IOS  CHRISTMAS  POEM. 

Haste  thee  to  that  humble  manger, 

Lowly  kneel,  and  meekly  pray, 
Till  the  blessing  of  the  Savior 

Makes  thy  darkness  light  as  day  ; 
While  on  angel's  wings  descending, 

LOVE  unlocks  the  golden  bar, 
Touched,  and  quickened  into  being, 

Rise  and  thank  the  Guiding  Star  ! 

Heaven  sheds  all  her  rays  about  us  ; 

Life  is  noble,  truth  is  long  ; 
Thro'  the  beating  storms  of  Winter, 

Pause,  and  listen  to  our  song : 
We  are  toilers  in  the  conflict, 

Straining,  struggling,  near  and  far  ; 
Christmas-tide  brings  Christmas  tidings,- 

We  have  found  the  Guiding  Star  ! 


ALL  ROUND  THE  YEAR. 

|LL  round  the  year  the  sun  shines  bright, 
The  pale  moon  sheds  her  softer  light, 
The  day  a  brilliant  beauty  shows, 
The  night  in  drowsy  stillness  goes : 
The  massive  links  of  mountain  chains, 
The  dimpled  swells  of  fertile  plains, 
The  boughs  of  trees,  the  roots  of  flowers, 

At  least,  are  always  here  ; 
And  Nature  keeps  her  sacred  powers 

All  round  the  year. 

All  round  the  year  the  brave  hearts  beat, 
The  ruddy  limbs  are  strong  and  fleet  ; 
With  youth  and  health  the  tokens  lie, 
Of  glowing  cheek  and  flashing  eye  ; 
No  chilling  influence  need  we  know, 
'Mid  summer  shine  or  winter  snow  ; 
Warm  hands  to  clasp,  warm  lips  to  press, 

Warm  friends,  forever  dear, 
Warm  life,  and  love  and  happiness 

All  round  the  year. 


110  ALL  ROUND    THE    YEAR. 

All  round  the  year  the  cultured  mind 
A  higher  culture  still  may  find, 
May  press  beyond  the  surging  throng 
With  yearning  deep  and  labor  strong  : 
The  star  of  Science  knows  no  cloud, 
The  flower  of  Art  no  snow-cold  shroud, 
No  season  moves  the  busy  brain, 

The  brain  that's  strong  and  clear  ; 
With  equal  force  we  toil  and  strain 

All  round  the  year. 

All  round  the  year  the  trusting  soul 
May  find  the  word  of  promise  whole  ; 
The  eye  of  faith,  once  firmly  stayed, 
No  doubt  can  move,  no  sorrow  shade  \ 
The  flight  of  time,  unknown  above, 
Breaks  not  our  Father's  boundless  love, 
Unbroken  be  the  tranquil  light 

That  folds  our  lesser  sphere, 
As  ever  pure,  and  calm,  and  bright, 

All  round  the  year. 

Then  mourn  not,  friend,  the  cutting  air, 
The  fields  so  white,  the  trees  so  bare  ; 
Let  no  false  grief  employ  your  tongue, 
Nor  wish  the  year  forever  young  : 


ALL  ROUND    THE    YEAR.  Ill 

The  flower  must  fade,  the  leaf  must  fall, 

But  one  great  Power  is  over  all  : 

If,  thro'  the  ceaseless  round  of  change 

One  changeless  Will  appear, 
Unmoved,  undaunted  may  we  range 

All  round  the  year. 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING. 

|HE  music  of  Christmas  is  ebbing  away, 

The  blue  of  September  has  faded  to  grey, 
The  roses  of  June  'neath  the  snow-drifts  are  laid, 
And  in  coinage  of  gold  April's  raindrops  are  paid. 
Then  sing  !    for  the   Old  Year  has  spent  of  his 

store, 
And   sing  to   the   New  Year  to   bring   us    £ome 

more  ; 

We  crave  his  indulgence,  we  ask  of  his  cheer, 
We  wish  you,  we  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year  ! 

May  the  storm-winds  of  Winter  pass  light  o'er  your 

head, 

May  the  breath  of  the  may-flower  be  over  you  shed, 
May  the  roses  of  Summer  with  love  be  aglow 
Till  the  year  is  again  wrapt  in  mantle  of  snow  ; 
Then  sing  !    for  the   Old  Year  has  spent  of  his 

store, 
And   sing  to   the   New  Year    to   bring  us   some 

more  ; 

We  crave  his  indulgence,  we  ask  of  his  cheer, 
We  wish  you,  we  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year  ! 


AN   ICE   STORM. 


TWO     SONNETS. 


[N  wings  of  wind  the  wild  March  day  flew  by, 
Shrouded  in  floating  mists  and  sleety  rain ; 
And  now  the  pale,  cold  light  begins  to  wane, 
Blown  in  grey  waves  across  the  gloomy  sky  : 
Tho'  safe  within,  we  feel  the  tempest  nigh  ; 
With  bated  breath,  against  the  quivering  pane, 
We  gaze  thro'  all  the  seething  storm  again, 
Where,  white  with  frost,  the  naked  meadows  lie, 
Where,  limb  on  limb,  the  swaying  forests  stand, 
Their  leafless  branches  tost  in  pearly  spray  ; 
A  sea  of  crystal,  crested  high  with  foam, 
In  hissing  waves  sweeps  o'er  the  ice-bound  land  ; 
Now  pure  and  pale  thro'  'fainting  lights  of  day, 
Now  lost  in  stormy  gloom  when  night  is  come 


I  H  AN  ICE  STORM. 

II. 

All  night  keen  winds  have  scourged  the  frosty  plain  ; 
All  night  the  groaning  boughs  have  clashed  and 

swung  ; 

Now  chaste  and  clear  the  morning  breaks  along 
The  still,  cold  glory  wrought  by  wind  and  rain. 
What  wondrous  grace  a  fettered  limb  may  gain  ! 
Earth  seems  one  grand,  white  flower,  thro'  tem 
pests  wrung, 

In  perfect  poise  uplifted,  drooped  and  hung, 
With  petals  lily-curved  and  pure  of  stain. 
The  ground  is  ridged  with  crystal,  every  tree 
Bending  and  swaying,  cased  in  glittering  mail, 

And  fringed  with  icicles  the  swinging  vine  ; 
Winter's  white  radiance  deepens  dazzlingly  ; 

Now  milk-white  pearls    in  shimmering  crescents 
pale, 

Now   flashing    diamonds    light    her   crystal 
shrine. 


BEAUTY     FOR    ASHES. 
"Give  unto  them  beauty  for  ashes." — ISAIAH  LXI.  3. 

|HE  fire  of  Home  is  burning  low, 

The  sunken  flames  relax  their  mirth, 
The  dying  embers  faintly  glow, 

And  ashes  strew  the  barren  hearth  ; 
Breathe  soft !   the  hot  coals  flush  for  shame  ; 

The  smoking  brands  together  press, 
Till  leap  the  writhing  tongues  of  flame 
In  wild, fantastic  loveliness. 

The  fire  of  Joy  is  burning  low, 

No  fuel  given  whereon  to  feed, 
Pale  ashes  quench  its  ruddy  glow, 

To  eat  the  heart  in  time  of  need  ; 
Yet  night  precedes  a  brighter  day, 

Pain  brings  a  bliss  more  pure  and  high, 
Where,  underneath  this  shroud  of  grey 

In  undimmed  light  red  rubies  lie. 


1 1 6  BE  A  UT  Y  FOR  A  SUES. 


The  fire  of  Love  is  burnin< 

Low  on  the  heart's  wide  hearthstone  laid, 
O'er  the  red  coals  pale  ashes  grow, 

Strange  symbols  of  a  beauteous  dead  ; 
Yet  breathe  warm  gusts  of  living  truth, 

The  quick  flames  leap  aloft  once  more, 
New  ardor,  kindling  warm  as  youth, 

Its  fervent  glow  shall  yet  restore. 

The  fire  of  Life  is  burning  low  ! 

Cold  grows  the  hand  once  strong  and  warm, 
Life's  bright  and  beaming  symbols  go 

From  ashen  cheek  and  shrunken  form  ; 
Yet,  tho'  the  quivering  flame  be  still, 

God's  kindling  breath  shall  bid  it  rise, 
In  waves  of  living  light  to  thrill, 

And  blaze  triumphant  in  the  skies. 


FAITH,  HOPE   AND   LOVE. 

HE  bulrush  grows  at  the  water's  brim 

While  its  pennons  fringe  the  mere, 
So  grows  my  Faith  in  the  soil  of  Earth, 
Yet  blooms  in  a  higher  sphere. 

The  lily  creeps  from  the  cool,  damp  mould 
And  floats  on  the  lake's  calm  breast, 

So  my  Hope  doth  bloom  thro'  the  darkest  gloom 
In  a  pure  and  peaceful  rest. 

But  the  water  cradles  and  rocks  them  all, 

And  bubbles  and  breaks  above, 
So  pure,  so  deep,  in  its  shimmering  sweep, 

Is  the  ocean  of  my  Love. 


WELCOME    SPRING. 

fRIGHT  and  breezy,  brave  and  clear, 

Strong  new  life  in  every  vein. 
March  begins  the  rolling  year, 

Starts  anew  the  wild  refrain  : — 
Hark  !  the  cool  winds  fresher  blow  ; 
Hark  !  the  clear  streams  freer  flow  ; 
Hark  !  the  birds  exultant  sing,— 
Welcome,  Spring  ! 

Moist  and  brown  the  naked  sod, 

Quick'ning  to  an  olive  green, 
Streaked  with  snow,  that  lingers  still 

Where  the  sheltering  fences  lean  ; 
Higher,  lines  of  trees  that  stand 
Stiff  and  bare,  on  either  hand, 
Murmuring,  as  they  rock  and  swing,— 
Welcome,  Spring  ! 

On  the  blue  hills  far  away, 

Hazy  dreams  of  distance  lie, 
While  white  drifts  of  cloudland  float 

O'er  a  clear  and  wind-blown  sky  ; 


WELCOME  SPRING.  l  J9 

In  the  air  a  subtle  power, 
Faint,  sweet  breath  of  leaf  and  flower, 
Thro'  the  damp  mould  whispering, — 
Welcome,  Spring  ! 

Once  released  from  Winter's  spell, 

Once  his  icy  reign  is  o'er, 
Shall  our  eager  hearts  rebel, 

Dashed  against  his  desert  shore  ? 
Nay,  for  once  the  germ  possessed, 
Ours,  in  truth,  are  all  the  rest, 
Flower  and  fruitage  Time  shall  bring,— 
Welcome,  Spring  ! 

Bright  and  breezy,  brave  and  clear, 

Strong  new  life  in  every  vein, 
March  begins  the  rolling  year, 

Starts  anew  the  wild  refrain  : — 
Hark  !  the  cool  winds  fresher  blow  ; 
Hark  !  the  clear  streams  freer  flow  : 
Hark  !  the  birds  exultant  sing,— 
Welcome,  Spring ! 


S.    H.   W. 
APRIL    23,    1878. 

44  A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
A  nLnf °i°P?  °f  unrec°rd'ns  friends, 
A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice." 

HRO'  all  the  doubtful  April  day, 
A  settled  vapor  fainting  broods, 
Cool  breezes  stir  the  silent  woods, 
Soft  sunlight  drives  the  clouds  away. 

The  rarest  bloom  is  close  in  bane  : 
The  brightest  ray  has  dreamy  veil 
Of   Hope,  far-seeing,  pure  and  pale, 

Of  Memory,  touched  with  tender  pain. 

Yet,  from  the  dewy,  hidden  flowers 
A  wondrous  fragrance  fills  the  air  ; 
A  chastened  light,  serenely  fair, 

Makes  golden-clear  the  quiet  hours. 

And,  spite  of  fitful  wind  and  storm, 
A  stately  grace,  a  tender  calm, 
For  wounded  hearts  a  gentle  balm, 

Makes  the  grey  twilight  deep  and  warm 


S.  If.    IV.  121 

How  strangely  sweet  her  silent  part, 
Whose  pure,  unselfish  labor  stirs 
Like  wings  of  angel  messengers 

The  secret  fountains  of  the  heart  ! 

God  bless  her  work,  and  such  as  hers, 
Who  live  in  others'  lives  alone  ; 
Increase  the  ever  widening  zone, 

The  sacred  circle  of  her  cares  ! 

And  when  her  heart  shall  cease  to  beat, 
Enshrined  in  painless  peace  above, 
Fill  up  the  measure  of  her  love, 

And  make  the  broken  sphere  complete  ! 


WELCOME  ! 

[INTER  is  over  and  gone, 

Gone  with  the  frost  and  tl.e  snow, 
With  the  streams  that  quiver, 
The  trees  that  shiver, 

The  winds  that  bluster  and  blow. 
Clasped  in  a  mighty  arm, 
Borne  on  a  living  wing, 

Sprung  from  the  earth,  or  fall'n  from  the  skies: 
Welcome,  our  Flower  of  Spring  ! 

Summer  is  yet  to  come, 

Her  roses  have  yet  to  blow, — 
Alike  remote 
From  the  warbling  throat, 

And  the  winding-sheet  of  snow  ; 
We  gather  the  violet  shy, 

The  mayflower  pale  and  lone, 
For  the  sweet  mid-spring 
Our  babe  did  bring, 

Afar  from  the  Great  Unknown. 


WELCOME!  123 

Not  ours  are  sorrow  and  care, 

All  those  with  Winter  have  gone  ; 
Not  ours  the  pleasure 
Too  full  for  measure, 

In  the  flush  of  a  Summer's  dawn  ; 
Our  joy  is  token  of  more, 

We  smile  on  the  passing  hour, 
The  fruit  shall  come  in  its  own  good  time,— 

God  has  given  the  flower. 

Then  welcome  to  sweet  Sky  Farm  ! 

To  song,  and  sunlight,  and  bloom, 
For  Love  rejoices, 
Thro'  myriad  voices, 

In  acres  of  woodland  room. 
O,  strange,  mysterious  birth  ! 

Thrilled  with  its  power  we  sing, — 
Welcome,  our  pure  on  earth  ! 

Welcome,  our  Flower  of  Spring  ! 


NATURE'S     COINAGE. 

APROPOS  OF  TPIE  BLAND  SILVER  BILL. 

|HRO'  talk  and  trouble,  shallow  and  strange, 

We  get  our  "medium  of  exchange;" 
Tho'  all  are  eager  for  money,  you'll  find 
Each  one  must  have  his  favorite  kind. 

"  A  tipsy  senate  passes  the  bill, — " 
The  papers  quarrel  about  it  still ; 
Silver  or  paper,  is  that  the  fuss  ? 
If  we  only  get  some,  it's  one  to  us ! 

On  the  busy  mart,  or  the  crowded  street, 
Our  stamp  and  seal  are  made  complete  ; 
There's  a  dingy  ceiling,  a  grimy  floor, 
And  a  mine  of  wealth  from  door  to  door. 

Nay !  leave  the  town  with  its  surge  and  strain, 
From  dollar  to  dollar,  loss  or  gain, 
And  breathe  the  air  of  the  breezy  hill 
Where  all  is  tranquil,  and  pure  and  still. 


NATURE'S  COINAGE.  125 

'Tis  true,  for  many  a  month  and  more 
The  wild  winds  fought  for  our  scatter'd  store, 
And  never  a  genuine  coin  was  told 
Since  the  last  witchhazel's  gleam  of  gold. 

'Tis  true  old  Winter  was  cold  and  stern, — 
But  he  poured  rare  gems  from  his  crystal  urn, 
With  milk-white  pearls  his  robe  was  set, 
And  diamonds  flashed  in  his  coronet. 

Now  Spring  sweeps  over  the  swaying  wood, 
In  shafts  of  sunlight,  and  pillars  of  cloud  ; 
And  shifting  breeze,  and  pattering  rain, 
Sweet  Nature's  coinage  renew  again. 

Ere  the  first  flower  creeps  from  the   leafy  mould 
The  bare  black  alders  are  fringed  with  gold, 
And  the  silver  buds  are  fair  to  see, 
On  the  boughs  of  the  slender  willow  tree. 

The  gold  is  ours  ;  we  take  and  buy 
A  softer  wind  and  a  bluer  sky  ; 
The  silver  slips  from  our  hands,  and  lo ! 
The  pink  arbutus  begins  to  blow. 

But  soon,  too  soon  our  April 's  past, 

With  its  shy,  pale  blossoms,  too  frail  to  last ; 


126  NATURE'S  COINAGE. 

The  seal  and  guerdon  of  wealth  untold 
We  clasp  in  the  wild  marsh-marigold. 

Then  leafy  tangles  of  green  are  ours, 
And  clear-voiced  birds,  and  bright-hued  flowers, 
Till  the  modest  daisy  brings  Summer  nigh, 
With  its  silver  petals  and  golden  eye. 

So,  lightly  fleeting,  the  Summer  goes, 
And  fainting  and  fading  her  crimson  rose  ; 
Soft  music  swells  on  the  sentient  air, 
And  the  sweetest  of  incense  is  everywhere. 

Now  Autumn  marshals  her  brilliant  train, 
With  ripened  fruitage  and  garnered  grain, 
And  the  golden-rod  by  the  roadside  waits 
As  entrance  fee  to  her  palace  gates. 

A  moment— the  forest  drops  its  crown, 
The  leaves  are  rustling  in  withered  brown, 
And  the  witchhazel  gleams  thro'  the  woodlands 

drear, 
The  last  pale  gold  of  the  dying  year. 

Man's  intricate  systems  and  dull  debate, 
His  struggles  for  self  and  questions  of  "  State  " 
Such  craft  is  bad  and  bads  to  worse, 
A  ruined  life  and  an  empty  purse  ! 


NATURE'S  COINAGE. 

But  Nature's  coinage  of  fire  and  dew, 
Is  grandly  simple  and  nobly  true, 
And  all  may  purchase  a  richer  wealth, 
A  fuller  freedom,  a  stronger  health, 

A  purer  air,  and  a  freer  room, 
A  richer  fruitage  and  brighter  bloom, 
A  sounder  life,  serene  and  strong, 
A  fresher  fancy,  a  sweeter  song. 

Then  leave  the  town  with  its  surge  and  strain 
From  dollar  to  dollar,  loss  or  gain, 
And  over  the  hills  where  the  stream  runs  clear 
You  may  live  full  many  a  happy  year. 


GRANDFATHER'S  BIRTHDAY. 

C.   G. 
APRIL  24th,   1791  — 1878. 

| WAS  many  an  April  morn  ago, 

Cooled  by  soft  winds  and  gentle  show 

ers, 

Vibrant  with  music  clear  and  low, 
And  drifted  white  with  flowers. 

On  that  blest  day  a  son  was  given, 

A  simple  child  of  April's  own, 
With  soul  as  fresh  and  pure  from  Heaven, 

As  violets  newly  blown. 

He  lived  thro'  Summer's  fervid  glow, 
With  brave  resolve  he  joined  the  strife, 

Yet  still  preserved  the  even  flow, 
The  tranquil  beauty  of  his  life. 

He  lived   thro'  Autumn's  harvest  hours, 
He  gained  what  honest  work  achieves, 

Yet  bound  his  dewy  April  flowers 
Among  his  golden  sheaves. 


GRA NDFA  THER  S  BIR  THDA  Y.  12$ 

He  lived  thro'  Winter's  piercing  blast, 
Thro'  storms  of  grief  and  clouds  of  care, 

And  still,  with  tranquil  faith,  held  fast 
The  buds  he  used  to  wear. 

His  are  the  fruits  of  kindly  deeds  ; 

The  garnered  grain  of  labor  strong  ; 
The  wisdom,  strength,  and  love,  that  lead 

To  lives  so  true  and  long. 

Yet  still,  ah  !  still  these  triumphs  bring 

No  signs  of  weakness  or  decay, — 
He  breathes  the  freshness  of  his  spring 

Thro'  Life's  autumnal  day  ! 

An  April  morn  is  round  us  now, 

Cooled  by  soft  winds  and  gentle  showers, 

Vibrant  with  music  clear  and  low, 
And  drifted  white  with  flowers. 


NEAREST  HEAVEN. 

|HRO'  the  dear,  familiar  voices, 

Known  and  loved  so  well  and  long, 
Framing  words  of  strength  and  solace, 

Sober  truth  or  happy  song, 
Comes  a  tone  of  subtler  meaning, 

Strangely  sweet  and  thrilling  clear, 
Sudden  cry,  or  cooing  murmur, 
Foreign  to  our  duller  ear. 

All  among  the  brave  home  faces, 

Bright  and  warm  thro'  lines  of  care, 
Shows  a  still  face,  pure  and  perfect, 

Ringed  about  with  shining  hair  ; 
Lips  un chilled,  and  brow  undaunted, 

Gaze  heaven-clear  and  angel-wise, 
With  a  depth  of  tender  meaning 

Far  beyond  our  mortal  eyes. 

In  our  home,  where  light  and  longing 
Struggle  sore  thro'  toil  and  strain, 

Comes  a  presence,  sweet  and  holy, 
Thro'  Life's  sacrament  of  pain  ; 


NEAREST  HE  A  VEN.  \  3 1 

And  a  tender  awe  is  blended 
With  our  love's  protecting  balm, 

As  we  kiss  the  baby  features, 

Nearest  Heaven's  immortal  calm. 


THE  LADY'S-SLIPPER. 

|HERE  Cinderella  dropped  her  shoe, 

'Tis  said  in  fairy  tales  of  yore, 
'Twas  first  the  lady's-slipper  grew, 
And  there  its  rosy  blossom  bore. 

And  ever  since,  in  woodlands  grey, 
It  marks  where  Spring  retreating  flew, 

Where,  speeding  on  her  eager  way, 
She  left  behind  her  dainty  shoe. 

On  pensile  stem  it  drooping  sways, 

Pale,  pink-veined  blossom,  lightly  swung, 

Here,  brushing  thro'  yon  tangled  ways, 
'Twas  lost  these  withered  leaves  among. 

Like  Prince  of  old,  on  romance  bent, 
We  bring  it  home  with  tender  care  ; 

But  all  in  vain — the  magic  lent 
By  fairy  lore  still  lingers  there. 


THE  LAD  Y'S-SLIPPER.  1 3 3 

Yet  see,  alas  !  no  foot  we  find 
To  fit  that  shoe  so  slender-small  : 

Our  Cinderella's  left  behind, — 
So  let  her  lady's-slipper  fall. 


LILY  AND  ROSEBUD. 

]ILY  and  Rosebud  bloom  together, 
All  in  the  garden  beds  of  home  ; 
Hearts  close-prest  thro'  the  darkest  weather, 

All  together  they  bud  and  bloom  ; 
Lily  drooping,  and  white,  and  slender, 
Rosebud  dewy,  and  pink,  and  tender, 
Hearts  love-warm  thro'  the  coldest  weather, 

Close  together  they  bud  and  bloom. 


TO 

]HE  dewy  light  of  early  morn 

Hath  melted  from  thy  skies, 
The  transient  flush  that  breaks  the  dawn 

Is  lost  in  sapphire  blue  ; 
But  noon's  full  calm,  like  burnished  gold 

Across  thy  pathway  lies, 
A  stronger  light,  a  deeper  glow, 
Than  careless  childhood  knew. 

The  fragile  bloom  of  tender  Spring 

Hath  vanished  from  thy  sight, 
The  birds  no  longer  trill  their  notes 

With  such  unconscious  glee  ; 
But  look  where  royal  roses  burn, 

Where  gracious  fruits  hang  ripe, 
And  round  the  watchful  parent  birds 

Their  downy  nestlings  see. 

Then  why,  dear  heart,  should  darkling  eve 

Cast  shades  of  night  before  ? 
Or  Winter  lay  his  icy  hand 

On  Summer's  warmest  glow  ? 


136 


TO 


Nay,  bask  within  thy  fuller  light, 

Enjoy  thy  riper  store, 
Nor  lay  thy  purple  mantle  down 

For  drifting  robes  of  snow  ! 


THROUGH  STORM  AND  CALM. 

WANDERING  wind  !  why  pause  and  falter 

now  ? 

*Why  check  the  freedom  of  thy  wild  refrain  ? 
This  white,  oppressive  silence  weighs  me  down, 
And  chills  my  life-blood  with  a  stagnant  pain. 

O  shy,  pale  flower,  in  dewy  stillness  hid, 

Break  from  thy  bonds  and  greet  the  living  sky  ; 

Lift  the  dark  fringes  of  thy  quivering  lid, 
And  light  the  forest  with  thine  azure  eye! 

Winter  is  gone,  his  rudest  storms  are  past, 

Then  why,  O  why  should  happy  spring  delay  ? 

Burst  into  sunshine,  gloomy  sky,  at  last, 
Roll  on  the  zenith  of  unclouded  day  ! 

This  hushed  suspense  beseems  not  such  an  hour, 
My  heart  beats  warmly  and  the  winds  are  dumb  ; 

Nay,  if  we  still  are  held  in  Winter's  power 

Break  the  dead  pause,  and  bid  the  tempest  come! 

From  distant  hills,  lost  in  a  dream  of  blue, 

From  tossing  mists,  and  floating,  pale  -gray  skies, 


138  THROUGH  STORM  AND  CALM. 

From  meadows  olive  green,  and  dark  brown  wooc; 
In  accents  soft  and  low  a  Voice  replies  : — 

"  Canst  thou  not  wait  ?     The  years  may  come  and 
go, 

Yet  count  them  not  :  Eternity  is  thine  ; 
Life  has  its  hours  of  steady  ebb  and  flow  ; 

Years  break  like  waves  against  the  shores  of  Time. 

"Winter  is  gone,  his  rudest  storms  are  past, 

Why  wouldst  thou  grasp  at  once  the  Summer's 
rose  ? 

This  hour  of  sweet  probation  may  not  last, — 
Taste  its  pale  joys,  accept  its  soft  repose. 

"Winter  is  gone,  yet  Summer  is  not  here, 

And  blinding  storms  may  yet  await  thee  there  : 

Why  wouldst  thou  meet  an  unknown  grief  too  near, 
For  which  these  quiet  moments  may  prepare  ?  " 

Nay,  gentle  Voice,  they  may  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Too  pure  and  calm  to  burn  with  human  fire  ; 

Empty  of  promise,  they  are  filled  by  me 
With  torturing  fear  and  passionate  desire. 

I  cannot  follow  out  a  growth  so  slow  ; 

My  thoughts  outrun  the  goal  ere  yours  begin  : 


THROUGH  STORM  AND  CALM.  139 

This  moment  was  exhausted  long  ago, 

And  chilled  without,  I  burn  and  glow  within. 

Still,  from  far  hills,  lost  in  a  dream  of  blue , 

Still,  from  soft  winds,  and  floating,  pale-grey  skies, 

Divinely  calm,  serenely  pure  and  true, 

In  accents  grave  and  clear  a  Voice  replies  :— 

"Return,  and  follow  back  the  steps  repassed, 
Too  hot  haste  misses  what  it  fain  would  find  ; 

We  speed  the  circle  round,  and  pause  at  last, 
Wearied  and  worn,  to  find  ourselves  behind. 

"  Canst  thou  not  wait  ?     This  hour  of  silent  rest, 
So  pure,  so  still,  untouched  by  pain  or  strife, 

May  farther  reach  than  toil  unduly  pressed, 
And  all  be  just,  for  all  is  in  a  life. 

"With  one  great  object  evermore  in  view, 

Thro'  storm  and  calm  the  varying  years  may  roll  ; 

Why  ask  for  strife — a  warrior  brave  and  true  ? 
Why  crave  for  rest  if  peace  be  in  thy  soul  ? " 

On  distant  hills,  lost  in  a  dream  of  blue, 

I  gaze,  at  last,  with  perfect  peace  possessed  ; 

Thro'  rest  and  toil  my  Guide  is  ever  true  : 
I  wait,  meanwhile,  the  Land  where  all  is  rest. 


TWO  SONNETS. 


BABY. 

|IMPLED,  and  flushed,  and  dewy  pink  he  lies, 
Crumpled,    and    tost,    and    lapt   in   snowy 

bands ; 

Aimlessly  reaching  with  his  tiny  hands, 
Lifting  in  wondering  gaze  his  great  blue  eyes. 
Sweet,  pouting  lips,  parted  by  breathing  sighs  ; 
Soft  cheeks,  warm-tinted  as  from  tropic  lands  ; 
Framed  with  brown  hair  in  shining,silken  strands,— 
All  fair,  all  pure,  a  sunbeam  from  the  skies  ! 
O  perfect  innocence  !  O  soul  enshrined 
In  blissful  ignorance  of  good  or  ill, 

By  never  gale  of  idle  passion  crossed  ! 
Altho'  thou  art  no  alien  from  thy  kind, 

Tho'  Pain  and  Death  may  take  thee  captive  still, 
Thro'  Sin,  at  least,  thine  Eden  is  not  lost ! 


TWO  SONNETS.  14! 

II. 
MOTHER. 

Upon  her  snowy  couch  she  drooping  lies, 
A  languor  on  her  limbs  that  seems  a  grace, 
A  sacred  pallor  on  her  lily  face, 

A  blessed  light  reflected  in  her  eyes. 

She  knows  who  drew  her  strength  and  would  not  rise; 
Forgetting  self,  she  rests  a  little  space, 
Sees  her  warm  life-blood  mantle  in  his  face, 

And  strains  her  ear  to  catch  his  wailing  cries. 

O  wondrous  mother-love  !  how  strange,  and  deep 
With  what  vibrating  thrill  of  tenderness  ! 
To  give  the  glow,  and  lie  a  pallid  flower  ! 

To  give  the  light,  and  smile,  and  wait  to  weep  ! 
Sweet  is  thine  infant's  warm  unconsciousness, 
But  sweeter  thy  mysterious  sacred  power. 


u         £  nx  0  £    a  m  * 

E.   R. 

AUGUST    10,   1878. 

THREE    SONNETS. 

ON    THE    BRINK. 

|LL  night  we  watched  beside  her  dying  bed, 
All  night  we  paced  her  hushed  and  dark 
ened  room, 
Thro'  the  deep  stillness  and  the  holy  gloom 
We  knelt,  to  catch  the  halo  round  her  head. 
Could  that  faint  breath  ere  break  of  day  be  fled, 
That  fair,  calm  face  its  last  sweet  sleep  resume, 
Those  still,  white  hands  lie  folded  for  the  tomb, 
And  yet  the  love  that  moved  them  be  not  dead  ? 
When,  faint  and  blind,  to  the  wide  air  we  stole,  • 
Our  sobs  were  strangled  in  the  abyss  of  Heaven, 
Whose  clear,  dark  blue  was  lanced  with  silvei 
beams — 


THREE   SONNETS.  143 

That  grand,  chaste  splendor  stilled  the   anguished 

soul  ! 

With  angel  wings  the  starry  vault  was  riven, 
Bearing  pure  spirits  to  unbroken  dreams. 

H. 

AT    PEACE. 

A  still,  clear  day,  a  tranquil  August  noon  ; 
Deep  peace,  full  calm,  on  all  the  drowsy  air  ; 
Soft,  brooding  warmth  on  the  shorn  grainfields, 

where 
Lies  a  rich  harvest,   Heaven's   most   precious 

boon. 

We  grieve  not  that  our  wheat  was  reaped  so  soon  ; 
Tho'    its   broad    emerald  waves  were   passing 

fair. 

These  golden  sheaves  a  fuller  meaning  bear, 
And  August  brings  a  riper  bliss  than  June. 
Thus  calmly  muse  on  this  still  face  serene, 
This  life  fulfilled  in  love,  and  closed  in  peace, 

Unscarred  by  passion,  perfect  grown  thro'  pain; 
We  loved  her, — learned  on  her  sweet  life  to  lean, — 
Yet   dare  not  mourn  that  such   a  life   should 

cease 

When   the    Great    Reaper   takes    His    ripened 
grain. 


144  THREE   SONNETS. 

III. 
BEYOND. 

Still,  night  will  come, — a  night  of  doubts  and  fears  ! 
Gone,  she  is  gone  !  and  never,  never  more 
Her  gentle  smile  shall  greet  us  at  the  door  : — 

We  sink  beside  it  drowned  in  hopeless  tears  ! 

O  aching  Past !  O  blinding  weight  of  years  ! 
O  dim  and  distant,  on  the  heavenly  shore, 
We  need  thy  saintly  presence  borne  before, 

To  guard  and  guide  us  till  the  Light  appears  ! 

Yet,  if  she  lives,  ours  is  not  wholly  loss  : 
— The  yearning  heart  that  none  can  satisfy, 
The  empty  chair  that  no  one  else  can  fill— 

Her  sweet,  strong  influence  lifts  our  heavy  cross  ; 
Touched  with  the  benison  of  her  memory, 
Encompassed  by  her  love,  we  have  her  still ! 


POEMS. 


DORA  READ  GOODALE. 

BORN,  Oct.  29^,  1866. 


.Atnum,  Stn,  If  If 


SPRING  AND  SUMMER. 

JN  Spring  we  note  the  breaking 

Of  every  baby  bud, 
'In  Spring  we  note  the  waking 

Of  wild  flowers  of  the  wood  ; 
In  Summer's  fuller  power, 

In  Summer's  deeper  soul, 
We  watch  no  single  flower, 

We  see,  we  breathe  the  whole  ! 


WAIT. 

JHEN  the  icy  snow  is  deep, 
Covering  the  frozen  land, 
Do  the  little  flowerets  peep 

To  be  crushed  by  Winter's  hand  I 

No,  they  wait  for  brighter  days, 
Wait  for  bees  and  butterflies, 

Then  their  dainty  heads  they  raise 
To  the  sunny,  sunny  skies. 

When  the  cruel  north  winds  sigh, 
When  'tis  cold  with  wind  and  rain, 

Do  the  birdies  homeward  fly 
Only  to  go  back  again  ? 

No,  they  wait  for  Spring  to  come, 
Wait  for  gladsome  sun  and  showers, 

Then  they  seek  their  northern  home, 
Seek  its  leafy,  fragrant  bowers. 


WAIT.  149 


Trustful  as  the  birds  and  flowers, 
Tho'  our  spring  of  joy  be  late, 

Tho'  we  long  for  brighter  hours, 
We  must  ever  learn  to  »vait. 


A  WELCOME  TO  BABY  MARTHA. 

WHAT  tho'  the  wild  winds  are  blowing  so 

shrill 
And  an  icy  cold  hand  on  our  darling  they  lay, 

0  what  tho'  the  snowflakes  still  give  us  a  chill 

As  they  fall,  and  they  fall,  and  they  melt  not 
away  ! 

The  last  day  of  March  when  the  robins  were  sing 
ing, 
Were  singing  their  joy  that  the  grasses  were  green, 

1  heard  the  winds  whisper  the  woods   should  be 

ringing 

With  praise  to  their  Queen,  to  their  new  baby 
Queen. 

And  then  all  the  robins  they  poured  forth  a  welcome, 
And  the  sun  it  smiled  down  on  her  sweet  baby 

grace, 
And    I   joined   in    the   welcome,    the  glad,  happy 

welcome, 

Which  made  the  woods  ring  in  the  depth  of  their 
space. 


A    WELCOME  TO  BABY  MARTHA.         I$l 

0  may  she  be  sweet  as  the  heart-cheering  sunshine, 
That  shone  on  her  cradle  so  soft  and  so  low, 

And  may  she  be  bright  as  the  beautiful  blossoms, 
As  glad  as  the  birds  and  as  pure  as  the  snow  ! 


DARK  THE  DAY,  BUT  BRIGHT  THE 
HEART. 

[ARK  the  day  but  bright  the  heart, 

True,  true  friends  can  never  part, 
Cold  the  storm  and  dark  the  day, — 
We  can  love,  and  love  alway. 

Tho'  the  winds  should  moan  and  cry, 
Tho'  they  wearily  should  sigh, 
Love  can  shed  a  gladsome  ray, — 
We  can  love,  and  love  alway. 

Then,  when  Springtime's  happy  bloom 
Sheds  about  a  rich  perfume, 
Love's  sweet  harvest  ours  that  day, 
We  will  love,  and  love  alway. 


SUMMER   IS  COMING. 

lUMMER    is    coming ! "   the   soft   breezes 
whisper, 

"  Summer  is  coming  !  "  the  glad  birdies  sing, 
Summer  is  coming  !  I  hear  her  quick  footsteps, — 
Take  your  last  look  at  the  beautiful  Spring  ! 

Lightly  she  steps  from  her  throne  in  the  woodlands, — 
"  Summer  is  coming,  and  I  cannot  stay  ; 

Two  of  my  children  have  crept  from  my  bosom, 
April  has  left  me  but  lingering  May. 

"  What  tho'  bright  Summer  is  crowned  with  roses  ? 

Deep  in  the  forest  arbutus  doth  hide  ; 
I  am  the  herald  of  all  the  rejoicing, 

Why  must  June  always  disown  me  ? "  she  cried. 

Down  in  the  meadow  she  stoops  to  the  daisies, 
Plucks    the    first   bloom     from    the    apple    tree's 
bough, — 

"  Autumn  will  rob  me  of  all  the  sweet  apples, 
I  will  take  one  from  her  store  of  them  now." 


I  54  SUMMER  IS  COMING. 

Summer  is  coming  !  I  hear  the  glad  echo, 
Clearly  it  rings  o'er  the  mountain  and  plain, 

Sorrowful  Spring  leaves  the  beautiful  woodlands,— 
Bright,  happy  Summer  begins  her  sweet  reign. 


STRAWBERRIES. 

|HEN  the  fields  are  sweet  with  clover, 
And  the  woods  are  glad  with  song, 
When  the  brooks  are  running  over, 

And  the  days  are  bright  and  long, 
Then,  from  every  nook  and  bower, 
Peeps  the  dainty  strawberry  flower. 

When  the  dear,  enchanting  Summer 

Tosses  beauties  at  our  feet, 
She  delights  each  weary  comer 

With  her  berries,  fresh  and  sweet : 
Springtide's  blossoms,  stored  away, 
Ripen  for  us  all  to-day. 


QUEEN  HAREBELL. 

| OWN  in  the  meadow  so  tenderly  green, 
Right  in  the  heart  of  the  mossiest  dell, 
Reigneth  a  queen,  a  bright  happy  queen, 
So  graceful  and  tall 
At  her  feet  we  do  fall, 
For  we  know  her  and  love  her  full  well. 

Or  when  the  frail  dew  drops  have  melted  away, 

And  the  sunlight  is  brighter  and  clearer, 
Her  heart  doth  rejoice  in  the  beautiful  day, 
Her  eyes  are  so  blue, 
So  deep  and  so  true, 
Enchanted,  we  long  to  be  near  her. 

And  all  the  day  long,  in  her  rest  and  her  peace, 

The  birdies  are  singing  her  praises, 
And  when  evening  falls,  and  their  happy  songs  cease 
She  sinks  to  repose 
With  the  kingcup  and  rose, 
Or  is  nodded  good  night  by  the  daisies. 


Q  UEEN  HAREBELL.  I  5  7 

I  love  the  fair  lilies  and  roses  so  gay, 

They  are  rich  in  their  pride  and  their  splendor. 
But  still  more  do  I  love  to  wander  away 
To  the  meadow  so  sweet, 
Where  down  at  my  feet, 
The  harebell  blooms,  modest  and  tender. 


SUMMER. 

HEAVEN'S  glorious  blue, 
So  deep,  so  pure,  so  fair  ! 
And  Summer's  sunny  air 
Sweet  with  a  fragrance  rare 
From  flowers  beyond  compare,- 
And  all  for  you  ! 

O  happy,  tender  days  ! 

O  shades  in  forests  deep, 
And  sweet,  unbroken  sleep, 
And  golden  grain  to  reap, 
And  birds  that  always  keep 

Chanting  their  lays  ! 


TRUE  LOVE. 

|HEN  all  the  earth  is  fresh  and  green, 
And  Heaven's  azure  smiling  too, 
When  sunlight  comes  with  golden  gleam 
And  shimmers  in  the  shallow  stream, 
We  say  we  know  that  Earth  is  sweet, 
And  all  the  shining  heavens  true. 

But  when  the  clouds  of  wintry  grey 
But  dim  the  brightness  of  the  sky, 

And  all  our  sunshine  fades  away, 

Both  out  of  doors  and  in,  we  say 

We  know  that  Earth's  few  joys  are  fleet, 
And  soon  her  fairest  pleasures  die. 

So  Friendship  in  her  summer's  hour 

Seems  pure  and  clear  as  Heaven's  blue, 

But  when  the  skies  of  Fortune  lower, 

With  cruel  frown  they  try  her  power, 

And  find,  tho'  lovely  for  the  time, 

She  is,  alas,  how  oft  untrue  ! 


I6O  TRUE   LOVE. 

O  blest  the  love  that  does  not  go, 

But  strengthens  with  each   winter's  blast  ! 
That  smiles  when  Fortune's  light  is  low, 
And  smiles  again  to  see  it  glow, 

That  smiles  in  youth,  in  age,  in  prime, — 

Such  love  as  this  will  always  last. 


SUNSHINE  AND   SHADOW. 

plays  on  the  hillside  steep, 
Or  kisses  the  daisied  meadow, 
Leaving  the  forest  and  waters  deep 
To  quiet  shadow. 

When  we  pass  thro'  this  life,  this  life  below, 

When  we  find  no  flowery  meadow, 
Shall  we  wait  and  wait  for  the  sun's  bright  glow, 
Or  rest  in  shadow  ? 


MEMORY. 

| HE  years  roll  on,  roll  on,  roll  on, 

The  time  flies  swiftly  by  ; 
We  learn  the  more  the  more  we  grow, 
At  first  we  think,  at  last  we  know 
How  dear  is  memory  ! 

And  when  our  cares  oppress  our  hearts, 

As  time  flies  swiftly  by, 
We  smile,  e'en  thro'  a  mist  of  tears, 
As  we  gaze  back  on  happy  years, 

Thankful  for  memory. 

And  when  we  old  and  older  grow, 

And  time  has  fast  flown  by, 
Forgetting  present  joy  or  pain, 
We  live  our  childhood  o'er  again, — 
Again  in  memory. 


FROM  SPRING  TO  FALL. 

|N  field  and  forest,  when  'twas  bright 

With  singing  birds  and  starting  flowers, 
Sweet  Springtime  reigned  ;  her  heart  was  light, 

She  kissed  the  sunbeams,  blest  the  showers, 
She  smiled  upon  the  wayward  breeze, 
And  clothed  in  tender  green  her  trees. 

Her  banks  were  carpeted  with  grass, 

And  purple  with  the  violet  ; 
Her  fresh  leaves  had  a  silken  gloss, 

Her  apple-blooms  with  dew  were  wet, 
And  fragrant,  rosy  buds  did  burst 
Of  sweet  arbutus,  opening  first. 

Then  Summer  took  her  flowery  throne, 
With  roses  red  and  harebells  blue, 

With  daisies  in  a  moment  blown, 
And  feathery  sprays  of  meadow  rue, 

With  buttercups  of  shining  gold, 

And  wealth  of  fairest  flowers  untold. 


164  FROM  SPRING  TO  FALL. 

Her  brooks  ran  babbling  thro'  her  fields, 

"  Her  snowy  clouds  went  floating  by, 
Her  happy  birds  their  glad  songs  trilled, 

And  soft  and  clear  her  azure  sky, 
Until,  at  last,  her  reign  was  o'er, 
And  Summer  flowers  bloomed  no  more. 

Now  Autumn,  bright  and  fair,  hath  come, 
We  welcome  her  with  happy  cry, — 

About  her  head    the  gentians  bloom, 
And  at  her  feet  her  harvests  lie  ; 

Her  golden  sheaves  and  stacks  of  grain 

Show  Summer's  sun  and  Springtime's  rain. 

Her  forests  all  are  glowing  bright,— 

Still  withered  leaves  must  soon  drop  down, 

And  when  at  last  the  ground  is  white, 
Sweet,  shining  Autumn  drops  her  crown, 

And  Winter,  with  his  icy  breath, 

Puts  every  bud  and  bloom  to  death. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

JUT  in  the  woods  so  tender, 

When  the  trees  are  green  and  fair, 
Out  in  the  shady  forest, 

I  can  see  her  standing  there  ; 
Wrapt  in  her  sunny  hair, 
Out  in  the  open  air, 
Out  in  the  silent  forest, 

I  can  see  her  standing  there. 

Long  are  the  days,  and  pleasant, 
And  the  skies  are  bright  and  fair,— 

Out  in  the  sunny  meadow, 
I  can  see  her  smiling  there  ; 
While  the  haystacks  scent  the  air, 
And  the  flowers  are  fresh  and  rare, 
.Out  in  the  blooming  meadow, 
I  can  see  her  smiling  there. 

Down  by  the  foamy  brookside, 
Far  from  the  sun's  bright  glare, 

Mirrored  against  the  waters, 
I  can  see  her  standing  there  ; 


1 66  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

With  the  brier  roses  fair 
Twined  in  her  golden  hair,— 
Mirrored  against  the  waters, 
I  can  see  her  standing  there. 

After  the  day  has  faded, 

Out  in  the  chilly  air, 
Bathed  in  the  dying  purple, 

I  can  see  her  standing  there  ; 

Lovely  beyond  compare, 

Free  from  all  toil  and  care,— 
Bathed  in  the  dying  purple 

I  can  see  her  standing  there. 

Under  the  blue,  blue  heavens, 

Under  the  stars  so  fair, 
Out  in  the  silver  moonlight, 

I  can  see  her  standing  there  ; 

And  the  moonbeams,  full  and  rare 

They  are  woven  in  her  hair,— 
Out  in  the  shining  starlight, 

I  can  see  her  smiling  there. 

Under  the  weeping  willow, 

With  the  brown  leaves  on  her  hair, 

Out  in  the  fading  autumn, 

I  can  see  her  weeping  there,— 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

Frosty  the  autumn  air, 
Withered  the  flowers  fair, — 
Out  in  the  dying  autumn, 
I  can  see  her  weeping  there. 


WHAT  IS  LEFT? 

HE  trees  are  barren,  cold  and  brown, 
The  snow  is  white  on  vale  and  hill, 
The  gentian,  aster  too,  are  gone, 
Is  there  no  blossom  with  us  still  ? 

O  look  upon  the  hazel  bough  ! 

The  flowers  there  are  bright  as  gold, 
Tho'  all  is  cold  and  wintry  now, 

Their  little  petals  still  unfold. 

The  apples  red  have  fallen  down, 

And  silent  is  the  joyous  rill, 
The  robin  and  the  thrush  have  flown, 

Is  there  no  bird  to  glad  us  still  ? 

Hark  !  don't  you  hear  a  gladsome  song, 
A  merry  chirp  from  tiny  throat  ? — 

The  snowbird  all  the  winter  long 
Will  cheer  us  with  his  happy  note. 


THE  MONTHS. 

JANUARY,  icy  cold, 

Leaves  a  mantle  soft  and  white  ; 

February,  sharp  and  bold, 
Onward  takes  his  busy  flight. 

March's  chilly  breezes  blow, 

Still  they're  touched  by  Winter's  hand  ; 
April  melts  the  frozen  snow, 

April  sunshine  floods  the  land. 

May  awakes  the  sleeping  flowers, 
R,eigns  a  sweet  and  happy  queen, 

With  her  coaxing  sun  and  showers 
Robes  the  trees  in  tender  green. 

June  is  bright  with  roses  gay, 

Harebells  bloom  around  her  feet ; 

Hot  July  rakes  new-mown  hay 

From  the  meadows,  fresh  and  sweet. 


1 70  THE  MONTHS. 

August's  pleasant,  quiet  reign 
Bids  the  meadow  lilies  come, 

And  September's  golden  grain 
Makes  a  welcome  harvest-home. 

Glad  October's  shining  sun 

Paints  the  leaves  in  richest  dyes, 

And  November,  dreary  one, 
Shoots  his  arrows  as  he  flies. 

Cold  December's  latest  breath 

Makes  the  woods  and  meadows  drear, 

And  his  eyelids  close  in  death 
As  he  ends  the  happy  year. 


'RAH  FER  TILDING  ! 

|N  a  threshold,  modest,  lowly, 

In  a  humble  cottage  door, 

"Stood  an  old  man,  bent  and  hoary, 

Gazing,  as  we  rode  before  ; 
Glasses  on  his  time-worn  eyes, 
In  his  face  a  mild  surprise,— 
Shouting  from  his  lonely  building— 
"  'Rah  fer  Tilding  !    'Rah  fer  Tilding  !  " 

Rusty  coat  and  battered  breeches- 
Knowing  no  "  Intimidation  !  ' 
Innocent  of  "  Fraud!  "  "  GREAT  CRISIS  ! 

Or  "  EXCITEMENT  OF  A  NATION  ! " 
Sweet  and  simple  was  his  creed, 
Noble  heart  was  his  indeed, 
Free  from  vain  or  shallow  gilding — 
All  his  cry  was  "  'Rah  fer  Tilding  !  " 


THE  GRUMBLER. 

HIS  YOUTH. 

|IS   cap  was   too  thick,  and   his  coat  was  too 

thin  ; 

He  couldn't  be  quiet ;  he  hated  a  din  ; 
He  hated  to  write,  and  he  hated  to  read  ; 
He  was  certainly  very  much  injured  indeed  ! 
He  must  study  and  toil  over  work  he  detested  ; 
His  parents  were  strict  and  he  never  was  rested  ; 
He  knew  he  was  wretched  as  wretched  could  be, 
There  was  no  one  so  wretchedly  wretched  as  he ! 

HIS  MATURITY. 

His  farm  was  too  small,  and  his  taxes  too  big  : 
He  was  selfish,  and  lazy,  and  cross  as  a  pig  ; 
His  wife  was  too  silly,  his  children  too  rude, 
And  just  because  he  was  uncommonly  good ! 
He  hadn't  got  money  enough  and  to  spare  ; 
He  had  nothing  at  all  fit  to  eat  or  to  wear  ! 
He  knew  he  was  wretched  as  wretched  could  be, 
There  was  no  one  so  wretchedly  wretched  as  he  ! 


THE   GRUMBLER.  173 

HIS  OLD  AGE. 

He  finds  he  has  sorrows  more  deep  than  his  fears, 
He  grumbles  to  think  he  has  grumbled  for  years  ; 
He  grumbles  to  think  he  has  grumbled  away 
His  home  and  his  children,  his  life's  little  day  : 
But  alas  !  'tis  too  late  !  it  is  no  use  to  say 
That  his  eyes  are  too  dim,  and  his  hair  is  too  grey  ; 
He  knows  he  is  wretched  as  wretched  can  be, 
There  is  no  one  so  wretchedly  wretched  as  he  ! 


A  WINTER'S  NIGHT. 

|HE  sky  is  stormy  grey,  and  frowns 

Upon  the  sunset's  fading  light  ; 
The  angry  wind  still  angrier  sounds, 
And  whistles  to  the  Winter's  night. 

The  snow  is  drifting  thro'  the  air, 

To  heap  the  plain  with  powdery  white ; 

The  storm  is  fierce,  the  trees  are  bare, 
And  dark  and  wild  the  Winter's  night. 

The  moon  amid  the  rifted  cloud 
Is  fain  to  hide  her  failing  light ; 

The  sleet  is  sharp,  the  blast  is  loud, 
And  bitter  is  the  Winter's  night. 


A  SUMMER'S  NIGHT. 

|  HE  azure  sky  is  rich  and  deep, 

With  fleecy  clouds  of  snowy  white  ; 
The  breezes  sing  you  into  sleep 
So  gently  on  a  Summer's  night. 

The  whippoorwill,  with  plaintive  cry, 
Rests  from  his  eager,  busy  flight  ; 

The  dewdrops  on  the  grasses  lie 

And  sparkle  thro'  the  Summer's  night. 

The  moonbeams  catch  the  first  fair  flush 
Of  budding  June  with  beauties  bright  ; 

The  creamy,  half-blown  roses  blush, 
Unfolding  thro'  the  Summer's  night. 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD'S   NEST. 

JHEN  June  was  bright  with  roses  fair, 
^     And  leafy  trees  about  her  stood, 
When  summer  sunshine  filled  the  air 

And  flickered  thro'  the  quiet  wood, 
There,  in  its  shade  and  silent  rest, 
A  tiny  pair  had  built  their  nest. 

And  when  July,  with  scorching  heat, 
Had  dried  the  meadow  grass  to  hay, 

And  piled  in  stacks  about  the  field, 
Or  fragrant  in  the  barn  it  lay, 

Within  the  nest,  so  softly  made, 

Two  tiny,  snowy  eggs  were  laid. 

But  when  October's  ripened  fruit 

Had  bent  the  very  tree-tops  down, 
And  dainty  flowers  faded,  drooped, 

And  stately  forests  lost  their  crown, 
Their  brood  was  hatched,  and  reared,  and  flown,- 
The  mossv  nest  was  left  alone. 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD'S  NEST. 

And  now  the  hills  are  cold  and  white, 
'Tis  severed  from  its  native  bough  ; 

We  gaze  upon  it  with  delight, — 

Where  are  its  cunning  builders  now  ? 

Far  in  the  sunny  South  they  roam, 

And  leave  to  us  their  Northern  home. 


WINTER. 

|\VEET  autumn  is  no  longer  bright, 

And  snow  has  wrapt  the  fields  in  white 
The  little  babbling  rill, 
That  when  the  summer  days  were  long, 
Did  cheer  Sky  Farm  with  merry  song, 
Is  icy,  hushed  and  still. 

Upon  the  meadow's  rounded  side, 

The  dainty  flowers  have  drooped  and  died  ; 

Those  messengers  of  song, 
That  when  the  summer  days  were  bright, 
Have  cheered  Sky  Farm  with  music  light, 

To  warmer  climes  have  gone. 

The  icicles  now  fringe  the  trees 

That  swayed  in  summer's  gentle  breeze, 

When  summer  days  were  fair  ; 
That  spread  their  branches  far  and  high 
Against  her  sunny,  azure  sky, — 

Now  they  are  brown  and  bare 


WINTER.  1/9 


Now  sunlight  glimmers,  pale  and  shy, 
And  now  the  winter  winds  are  high, 

The  winter  winds  are  bold  : 
We  loved  the  springtime's  sun  and  rain, 
We  longed  for  summer's  rose  again, 
We  loved  the  autumn's  golden  grain, — 

We  love  the  winter's  cold  ! 


TEACH  US  HOW  TO  PRAY. 

]ORD,  when  we  are  led  astray 

From  the  straight  and  narrow  way, 
Change  our  darkness  into  day, — 
Teach  us  how  to  pray. 

When  our  path  is  dark  and  drear, 
When  our  hearts  are  full  of  fear, 
When  our  cross  is  hard  to  bear, 
Teach  us  how  to  pray. 


MARCH. 

HE  swollen  brook,  the  muddy  stream, 

The  sun's  uncertain,  quivering  gleam, 
The  bare  brown  earth,  and  skies  that  seem 
To  smile  and  frown  on  every  dream 

Of  Spring,  for  which  we  search  : 

The  soft,  warm,  dreamy  springtime  air, 
The  tiny  plants  so  green  and  fair, 
The  budding  willow  catkins,  where 
The  breezes  Spring's  first  fragrance  bear, 
All  tell  us  it  is  March. 

The  springtime  rains  that  gently  fall, 
And  water,  wake,  and  freshen  all, 
The  starting  trees,  so  straight  and  tall, 
The  robin's  note,  the  bluebird's  call, — 

First  songs  that  say  so  much  ! 

The  consciousness  that  Spring  is  here, — 
Sweet  Spring,  to  every  heart  so  dear  ! 
The  newness  of  the  opening  year, 
The  mingled  joy,  and  hope,  and  fear, 
All  tell  us  it  is  March. 


WHO  STARTS  THE  FLOWERS  ? 

|APPY  Sunshine  smiled  one  day, 

Raindrops  chased  her  light  away,- 
"  Don't  you  see  the  grass  is  brown  ? 
We  must  patter,  patter  down, 
Till  the  earth  has  had  its  fill." 
Sunshine  answered,  smiling  still : — 
"  Don't  you  see  the  ground  is  bare  ? 
Flowers  should  be  starting  there, 
But  they  will  not  come  for  rain, 
I  must  make  them  bloom  again." 

Then  the  Breeze  came  hurrying  past 

With  a  fresh,  life-giving  blast  : — 

"  It  is  I,  too,  help  to  make 

All  the  lovely  flowers  wake  ; 

Blowing  thro'  the  sleeping  trees 

What  will  rouse  them  like  the  breeze  ? " 

Said  the  Night :— "I,  as  I  creep, 
Close  their  leaves  and  bring  them  sleep  ; 
With  the  cloak  that  darkest  seems, 
Shut  their  eyes  to  pleasant  dreams." 


WHO  STARTS  THE  FLOWERS?  183 

Said  the  Day  :— "  I,  with  my  light, 
Change  the  gloomy  robe  of  Night 
To  the  shining  one  of  Day, 
Driving  all  its  shades  away." 

Said  the  Earth  :— "  I  feed  the  flowers, 
Lavish  on  them  all  my  powers  ; 
Close  entrusted  to  my  care, 
Planted  in  my  bosom  fair, 
When  their  dainty  buds  appear, 
I,  their  mother,  hold  them  dear." 

Said  the  Sky  : — "  I  b^nd  above, 
Tenderly  to  watch  and  love. 
'Neath  my  azure  arch  they  live  ; 
Sun  and  rain  are  mine  to  give." 

Cried  the  Spring,  who  heard  them  all  : — 

"  Sunbeams,  shine  !  and  showers,  fall  ! 

I  have  broken  Winter's  spell, 

You  must  rear  my  darlings  well ; 

By  my  magic  breath  they,  start, 

Let  them  cheer  each  drooping  heart !  " 


FAIRY  LAND. 

HAIRY  LAND  is  far  away,— 

Over  mountains  capped  with  snow, 
Over  seas  of  silver  spray, 

In  the  sunset's  parting  glow  : 
There  flowers  are  blooming  all  the  year, 
And  skies  are  always  bright  and  clear, — 
O,  never  there  'tis  bleak  or  drear 
In  happy  Fairy  Land  ! 

Fairy  Land  is  far  away, 

Yet  'tis  ever  just  in  sight, — • 
Haunting  all  our  weary  way 

With  its  visions  of  delight  : 
There  care  or  sorrow  never  seems 
To  weigh  our  hearts,  or  blight  our  dreams  ; 
And  every  pleasure  brighter  beams 
In  happy  Fairy  Land. 

Fairy  Land  is  far  away  ! 

We  may  look,  and  long,  and  wait, 
We  may  hasten,  or  delay, 

But  we  always  come'  too  late  ; 


FAIRYLAND.  I  §5 

Tho'  rich  with  promise  bloom  its  flowers, 
Its  witching  fruits  are  never  ours  : 
Farewell,  O  sweet,  delusive  bowers 
Of  happy  Fairy  Land  ! 


MAY. 

JAFTED  thro1  the  silent  woodland 
Comes  a  breath  of  brighter  days. 
And  the  distant  hills  are  shrouded 

In  a  dreamy,  purple  haze  ; 
O  what  joy  to  see  the  flowers, 

Hidden  'neath  the  snow  so  long, 
And  to  hear  the  silence  broken 
By  a  sudden  burst  of  song  ! 

Now  the  tender,  sweet  arbutus 

Trails  her  blossom-clustered  vines, 
And  the  many-fingered  cinquefoil 

In  the  shady  hollow  twines  ; 
Here,  behind  this  crumbled  tree-trunk, 

With  the  cooling  showers  wet, 
Fresh  and  upright,  blooms  the  sunny 

Golden-yellow  violet. 

Now  the  phcebe  and  the  robin 
Bid  farewell  to  winter's  cold, 

And  in  yonder  marshes  burns 
The  fiery-flaming  marigold  ; 


MAY.  187 

Or  where  alders  fringe  the  water, 

Casting  perfume  on  the  air, 
See  the  purple  trilliums  blooming 

Rich  and  stately,  everywhere. 

O  how  sweet,  how  sweet  is  springtime  ! 

When  the  meadow  dons  her  green, 
And  the  tangled  woods  are  fairest, 

And  the  sunlight  shifts  between  ; 
Fresh  and  pure  her  crown  of  blossoms, 

Thick  with  flowers  all  her  way, 
While  the  blue  skies  bent  above  her, 

Deep  and  tender,  smile  on  May. 


A  BIT  OF  WOODS. 

LITTLE  gushing  brook  o'erhung  by  trees, 

The  stately  chestnut  and  wide- spreading  oak  ; 
The  wind  that  whispers  low,  as  if  it  spoke 
To  birds  and  blossoms  there,— a  quiv'ring  breeze  ; 
A  shadow  on  the  ground,  where  you  can  trace 

The  graceful  outlines  of  the  trees  above, 
That  stir  whenever  breezes  shake  the  boughs, 
And  silently  and  softly  bend  and  move. 

The  purple  blossoms  that  are  flung  around  ; 

The  faint  anemones  that  trembling  blush  ; 

The  carol  of  the  bluebird  or  the  thrush, 
And  fair  arbutus  trailing  on  the  ground  ; 
The  sun  that  smiles  upon  them  from  the  sky. 

And  throws  his  rays  between  the  tree-tops  tall ; 
The  bee  that  buzzes  in  the  flower  cups  ; 

The  sense  of  peaceful  stillness  over  all. 


TO  THE  SWALLOWS. 

'EAR  birds,  that  greet  us  with  the  spring, 

That  fly  along  the  sunny  blue, 
That  hover  'round  your  last  year's  nests, 

Or  cut  the  shining  heavens  through  ; 
That  skim  along  the  meadow  grass 

Among  the  flowers  sweet  and  fair  ; 
That  croon  upon  the  pointed  roof, 

Or,  quiv'ring,  balance  in  the  air  ; 
Ye  heralds  of  the  summer  days, 

As  quick  you  dart  across  the  lea, 
Though  other  birds  be  fairer,  yet 

The  dearest  of  them  all  are  ye. 

Dear  as  the  messengers  of  Spring, 
Before  the  buds  have  opened  wide, 

Dear  when  the  other  birds  are  here, 
Dear  in  the  burning  summertide  ; 


TO   THE  SWALLOWS. 

But  when  the  lonely  autumn  wind 
About  the  flying  forest  grieves, 

In  vain  we  look  for  you,  and  find 
Your  empty  nests  beneath  the  eaves  ! 


SPRING   SCATTERS    FAR   AND   WIDE. 

|N  every  bank,  in  every  nook, 

By  every  shaded,  sparkling  brook, 

On  every  mountain  side, 
In  every  hollow,  deep  and  cool, 
By  every  wood-road,  every  pool, 

Wherever  sunbeams  glide  ; 
In  every  shadow,  long  and  deep, 
Where  all  the  heavens  seem  asleep, — 

Wherever  mosses  hide, 
In  rich  luxuriance,  everywhere, 
Her  flowers,  delicate  and  fair, 

Spring  scatters  far  and  wide. 

Upon  the  mossy  apple  bough 

The  rosy  blooms  are  trembling  now, 

And  in  the  woods  a  fragrance  rare 

Of  wild  azaleas  fills  the  air, 

And  richly  tangled  overhead 

We  see  their  blossoms  sweet  and  red  ; 

The  strawbell  and  the  columbine 

Their  buff  and  crimson  flowers  entwine 


192      SPRING  SCATTERS  FAR  AND   WIDE. 

And  thick  in  many  a  sunny  spot 
There  blooms  the  pale  forget-me-not  ; 
The  modest,  lowly  violet 
In  leaves  of  tender  green  is  set, 
So  rich  she  cannot  hide  from  view, 
But  covers  all  the  bank  with  blue. 
Her  birds  and  bees  so  glad  and  gay, 
Her  songs,  as  rich  and  full  to-day 

As  in  the  summertide, 
Her  beauties,  dewy  fresh  and  sweet, 
Her  blossoms,  cluster'd  round  o-ir  feet, 

Spring  scatters  far  and  wide. 


IT    SEEMS   AS   IF   THE   FLOWERS   WERE 
ALIVE. 

|T  seems  as  if  the  flowers  were  alive, — 

They  bend  and  bow  to  one  another  so, 
As  if  they  had  a  secret  that  they  told 
By  opening  their  eyes  of  blue  and  gold, 
And  looking,  and  by  nodding  to  and  fro. 

It  seems  as  if  the  flowers  were  alive, — 

And  all  unlike  in  color,  form,  and  size, 
They  bear  a  family  resemblance,  yet 
There  is  a  secret,  which  we  cannot  get, 
That  in  their  rosy-blushing  petals  lies. 

It  seems  as  if  the  flowers  were  alive, — 

As  grouped  together  in  the  fields  they  stand, 
As  if  to  nearer  press,  that  every  vine 
About  them  might  its  tendril  fingers  twine, — 
Looking  like  fairy  sisters  hand  in  hand. 


TQ4  FLOWERS  ALIVE. 

It  seems  as  if  the  flowers  were  alive,— 

Some  love  the  sunlight,  others  love  the  shade  ; 
Some   climb    the    cold    rocks   on    the   mountain 

height, 

And  others  make  the  dusty  roadsides  bright ; 
Some  love  the  brook   and   some   the   mellow 
glade. ' 

It  seems  as  if  the  flowers  were  alive,— 

Warm,  rich  and  passionate,  or  sweet  and  shy, 
Or  pure  and  spotless,  throwing  on  the  air 
Their  fragrance,  budding,  blooming,  fresh  and  fair, 
At  last  they  slowly  wither,  fade  and  die. 


A   SUMMER   SHOWER. 

[1ST  upon  the  mountain  top 

Slowly  settles  down, 
Rain  is  gathering,  drop  by  drop, 

Skies  begin  to  frown  ; 
In  the  field  and  in  the  lane, 
Many  a  downcast  flower 
Droopeth,  longing  for  the  rain, 
For  the  summer  shower. 

Now  the  rain  begins  to  fall 

From  its  cloudy  bed, — 
Listen  !  hear  the  thrushes  call  ! 

Clover  lifts  her  head, — • 
Shrunken  streamlets  rise  and  swell 

From  each  leafy  bough 
Jewels  hang,  and  in  the  deli 

Grasses  bend  and  bow. 

Mist  upon  the  mountain  top 

Lightly  sails  away  ; 
Rain  has  fallen,  drop  by  drop, 

Blue  replaces  grey  ; 


196  A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

In  the  field  and  in  the  lane, 
Many  a  freshened  flower 

Smileth,  brightened  by  the  rain, 
By  the  summer  shower. 


THE   BOBOLINK'S   NEST. 

HERE  the  flowers  are  fresh  and  fragrant 

Where  the  noonday  shadows  fall, 
Where  the  warm,  delicious  sunlight 

Smiles  so  true  ; 
Where  the  breezes  leave  their  ripples, 

Blowing  thro'  the  grasses  tall, 
Daisies  whiten  all  the  meadows, 
Skies  are  blue. 

There,  when  apple-blooms  had  fallen, 

Rosy  petals  strewn  the  ground, 
Springtime  melted  into  Summer, 

All  was  rest  ; 
And  a  merry,  white-capped  darling, 

With  his  mate  so  quaint  and  brown, 
Underneath  the  tufted  grasses 
Built  their  nest. 

Softly  lined  and  loosely  woven, 

Light  blue  eggs  wrere  in  it  laid, 
Clear,  transparent,  blotched  with  purple, 
Fair  to  see  ; 


1 98  THE  B  OB  OLINK  S  NE S T. 

While  the  mother  covered  closely, 

Anxious,  tender,  half  afraid, 
Bob  o'Lincoin  carolled  to  her 
Full  of  glee. 

But  one  day  as  she  was  brooding, 

With  four  eggs  beneath  her  breast, 
Came  a  sudden  rush  upon  her, — 

Up  she  flew  ! 
All  her  dainty  eggs  were  broken, 

And  they  took  the  empty  nest  ;— 
What  to  her  tho'  flowers  are  fragrant, 
Skies  are  blue  ! 


HAYMAKING. 

|AISIED  meadows,  fields  of  clover, 
Grasses  juicy,  fresh  and  sweet, — 
In  a  day  the  wild  bees  hover 

Over  many  a  fragrant  heap  ; 
Windrows  all  the  meads  do  cover, 

Blossoms  fall,  and  farmers  reap,— 
In  a  month,  and  all  is  over — 
Stored  away  for  winter's  keep. 


A    MIDSUMMER   DAY. 

WHAT  is  so  sweet  as  a  midsummer  day, 
When  no  sound  greets  the  ear  save  a  bird's 

happy  lay, 

Or  the  rustling  of  leaves  as  the  wind  passes  thro'  ; 
When  the  earth  is  so  green,  and  the  sky  is  so  blue  ! 

When  the  swallows  in  ecstasy  dart  thro'  the  air, 
When  the  breeze  is  so  pure,  and  the  flowers  are  sc 

fair, 

When  the  grain  is  so  golden,  the  farmer  so  gay, 
O  what  can  compare  with  a  midsummer  day  ! 


OUR  CHICKENS. 

GENTLE  pullet  on  the  stoop,— 
A  rooster  where  the  cream  is  rising,- 
A  hen  who  doubtless  likes  our  soup, 
And  eats  it  without  criticizing  ! 

A  mild-eyed  chicken  calmly  stands 
And  on  the  kitchen  table  lingers, — 

And  why  ?     Of  course  he  understands 
The  bread  is  fresh  from  mamma's  fingers. 

An  angry  "  shoo  !  " — he  thinks  it  vain, 
But  then  of  course  there  is  no  knowing,— 

He  smashes  thro'  a  window  pane 

And  fears  it's  time  that  he  was  going. 

A  pullet,  not  upon  the  stoop, 

But  with  cream  gravy  on  a  platter  ; 

A  hen  who's  grown  so  fat  on  soup 

That  what  she  makes  is  no  small  matter. 


2O2  OUR   CHICKENS. 

Ah,  chickens  !   'tis  no  use  to  beg, 

Tho'  you  were  bold,  we,  we  are  bolder,— 

And  mamma,  will  you  take  a  leg  ? 

Or  would  you  rather  have  a  shoulder  ? 

You  make  a  most  delicious  pie  ! 

Your  time  is  past  and  ours  beginning, — 
Not  long  upon  my  plate  you'll  lie,-- 

This  is  the  penalty  of  sinning  ! 


IN   THE    LOFT. 

N  the  hay-loft,  dark  and  sweet, 

With  the  breath  of  new-mown  hay 
There  the  lights  and  shadows  fall 
Weird  upon  the  seamed,  scarred  wall, 
And  the  dusky  swallows  soar 
High  above  the  broken  floor, 
Lightly  poise  on  tiny  feet, 
Quiver,  dip,  and  dart  away. 


HIGH   AND    LOW. 

|HE  showers  fall  as  softly 

Upon  the  lowly  grass, 
As  on  the  stately  roses 
That  tremble  as  they  pass. 

The  sunlight  shines  as  brightly 
On  fern  leaves  bent  and  torn, 

As  on  the  golden  harvest, — 
The  fields  of  waving  corn. 

The  wild  birds  sing  as  sweetly 
To  rugged,  jagged  pines, 

As  to  the  shaded  orchards 
And  to  the  cultured  vines. 

Our  Father  looks  as  kindly 

Upon  the  lowly  poor, 
As  on  the  rich  and  haughty 

Who  turn  them  from  their  door. 


AFTER  THE   RAIN. 

JRASS  is  newly  fresh  and  green, 

After  the  rain  ; 

Sky  is  fair  in  brighter  sheen, 

After  the  rain  ; 
Out  upon  the  mountain  side 
Floating  shadows  softly  glide, 

After  the  rain. 

Flowers  are  fresh  and  leaves  are  bright, 

After  the  rain  ; 
Sunshine  floods  the  land  with  light, 

After  the  rain  ; 
Morning  vapors  melt  away, 
Birds  are  singing  glad  and  gay, 

After  the  rain. 

All  the  earth  seems  pure  and  clear, 

After  the  rain  ; 
Gloomy  troubles  disappear 

After  the  rain  ; 

Sunshine  comes  with  sudden  glow, 
Hearts  are  glad,  and  sorrows  go, 

After  the  rain. 


AT    DAWN. 

GLIMMERING  of  greyish  light, 

Before  the  morning  breaks  ; 
The  weary  death  of  weary  night, 

Before  the  daytime  wakes  ; 
A '  d  rosy  tints  in  melting  skies, 
As  morning  opes  her  dewy  eyes. 

A  sudden  gleam,  a  deepening  glow, 
Behind  the  sun-lined  cloud  ; 

While  fresh  and  clear  the  breezes  blow, 
And  birds  are  calling  loud, 

And  long,  dark  shadows  lowly  lie 

Where  stately  trees  are  standing  high. 

And  so,  with  first  uncertain  gleams, 

Before  the  brighter  hours, 
We  see  suggested  hopes  and  dreams 

That  still  shall  show  their  flowers  ; 
Till,  as  the  quickened  morning  wakes, 
A  fuller  light  upon  us  breaks. 


SIGHTS    AND   SOUNDS    OF   SUMMER. 

|ILVER  rains  falling  on  blossoms  and  leaves; 

Song  of  the  brook  in  the  valley  below ; 
Harvdest  fields    stacked   with    the    lightly    bound 

sheaves  ; 

Twitter  of  swallows  in  under  the  eaves, 
Waking  to  life  at  the  morning's  first  glow. 

Sun  looking  down  on  the  newly  mown  hay  ; 

Chirp  of  the  cricket,  and  hum  of  the  bee ; 
^3appy  birds  singing  and  winging  their  way  ; 
Flowers  in  the  meadow,  so  rosy  and  gay  ; 

Cool,  gentle  breezes  that  pass  o'er  the  lea. 

Bright  daylight  fading  adown  in  the  west, 
Silver  moon  rising,  so  glowing  and  bright ; 

Little  birds  sleeping  'neath  mother's  warm  breast  ; 

All  the  earth  hushed  in  the  stillness  of  rest, 
Lighted  by  fireflies  that  gleam  thro'  the  night. 


SLEEP. 

]HEN  the  evening  shadows  creep 

Stealthily, 
Hiding  every  hill  and  dale, 
Hiding  all  things  with  their  veil ; 
When  the  shining  day  doth  die, 
Sweet  is  sleep. 

When  the  evening  shadows  creep 

Stealthily ; 

To  the  baby  in  her  nest, 
Longing  for  her  quiet  rest, 
Hushed  by  loving  lullaby, 

Sweet  is  sleep. 

When  the  evening  shadows  creep 

Stealthily, 

To  the  weary  heart  and  brain 
Bringing  tranquil  peace  again  ; 
All  our  cares  and  sorrows  fly, — 
Sweet  is  sleep. 


AN   AUTUMN    PICTURE. 

]KY  deep,  intense,  and  wondrous  blue, 

With  clouds  that  sail  the  heavens  thro' 
And  mountain  slopes  so  broad  and  fair, 
With  here  and  there  amongst  the  green, 
A  maple  or  an  ash  tree  seen 

In  glowing  color,  bright  and  rare. 

Green  fields,  where  silvery  ripples  fade, 
With  cattle  resting  in  the  shade  ; 

Far  mountains  touched  with  purple  haze, 
That,  like  a  veil  of  morning  mist, 
By  gleams  of  golden  sunlight  kissed, 

Seems  but  a  breath  of  bygone  days. 

And  clover,  which  has  bloomed  anew 
Since  shining  scythes  did  cut  it  thro' ; 

And  corn  fields  with  their  harvest  fair; 
And  golden  rod  upon  the  hill, 
And  purple  asters  blooming  still, — 

And  sunlight  melted  into  air. 


ONE    MOMENT    MORE. 

N  Spring  a  new  life  stirs  the  air, 

It  falls  in  soft,  refreshing  showers, 
'Tis  melted  into  sunbeams  clear, 

The  sunbeams  wake  the  sleeping  flowers,- 
O  then  we  cry, — "  Thou  changeful  Spring, 
One  moment  more,  sweet  Spring,  delay  ! " — 
But  Spring  has  come,  and  passed  away. 

In  Summer  all  the  earth  is  fair, 

And  rich  and  bright  her  flowers  bloom, 

Her  glad  birds  sing  in  meadows  wide, 
And  in  the  forest's  shaded  gloom, 

And  then  we  cry, — "  O  linger  still  ! 

A  linle  longer,  Summer,  stay  !  "- 

But  Summer  came,  and  passed  away. 

O  Autumn  !  with  your  harvest  stores, 
Your  golden  grain,  your  merry  cheer, 

Your  long,  full  days  of  sunlight  warm, 
You  bear  the  fruit  of  all  the  year, — 

Then  bring  to  us  your  ripened  nuts, 

And  bring  to  us  your  asters  gay ! — 

Ere  long  you  too  shall  pass  away. 


INDIAN    SUMMER. 

WEARY,  weary  are  the  days 

When  Fall  has  ceased  to  reign, 
When  Winter  cold,  and  bleak,  and  drear, 
Has  scarcely  chilled  his  clouds  to  grey, 
Has  scarcely  killed  the  flowers  gay, 
Before  he  ends  the  dying  year, — 
Then  weary  are  the  days. 

But,  from  October's  rustling  leaves, 
October's  golden  grain, — 

From  shining  forests,  rich,  aglow, 

And  flying  birds,  and  sun  that  warms, 
He  cannot  change  her  smiles  to  storms, 

He  cannot  change  the  grass  to  snow 

At  once,  from  fair  October's  glow. 

And  so,  between  them  comes  a  pause 

In  grey  November's  chill, 
A  sweet,  and  soft,  and  languid  breath  ; 


2 1 2  INDIA  N  S  UMMER. 

Until  our  thoughts  we  reconcile 
To  Winter's  frown  from  Summer's  smile, 
And  learn  to  bear  the  Autumn's  cbeath, 
Ere  Winter  breaks  the  pause. 


THROUGH   THE   BRANCHES. 

N  Summer,  thro'  the  leafy  trees 

That  spread  their  branches  high, 
I  catch  between  the  quivering  leaves, 

A  scrap  of  shining  sky  ; 
The  sunlight  flickers  on  the  grass. 

It  dances  here  and  there, — 
The  soft  wind  breathes  of  forest  glades 
And  meadows  broad  and  fair. 

And  when  October's  gentians  deep 

Are  standing  bright  and  blue, 
I  see  a  softer,  hazier  sky, 

The  glowing  branches  thro' ; 
I  see  a  snowy,  sailing  cloud, 

The  rosy  leaves  between, 
I  see  the  golden  mountain  top 

With  pine  trees  darkly  green. 

But  in  November,  I  can  see 
Thro'  branches  spreading  bare, 

A  cold  and  grey  November  sky 
That  once  had  looked  so  fair ; 


214      THROUGH  THE  BRANCHES. 

Behind  the  branches  I  can  see 
The  snovv'flakes  floating  white, 

The  mountain  top  so  lone  and  brown, 
The  sunset's  waning  light. 


AUTUMN'S   DYING. 

]ERE  and  there,  thro'  the  frosty  air, 
The  withered  leaves  are  blowing, 
The  forests  stand  all  stiff  and  bare, 
For  Autumn's  going,  going. 

The  birds  have  ceased  their  carols  gay, 
The  brooks  their  joyous  flowing, 

The  heavy  clouds  are  wintry  grey, 
For  Autumn's  going,  going. 

A  month  ago,  the  woods  were  bright 
With  colors  rich  and  glowing, 

But  the  last  leaf  will  fall  to-night,— 
For  Autumn's  going,  going. 

The  ground  is  white  with  Winter's  snow, 
The  flakes  are  whirling,  flying, 

The  whistling  winds  still  sharper  blow, 
For  Autumn's  dying,  dying. 


2 1 6  A  UTUMN'  S  D  YING. 

The  clouds  vare  gathering  thick  and  fast, 
And  on  the  mountains  lying, 

The  sharp  wind  blows  a  bitter  blast, 
To  mourn  the  Autumn's  dying. 


TO  A  DEAD  LEAF. 

WITHERED  leaf  !  O  sailing  leaf  ! 

That  flutters  here  and  there, 

With  you  the  spirit  of  the  Fall 

Is  flying  far  away  ; 
You  speak  of  dreary  Autumn's  death, 

Of  Winter  bleak  and  bare  ; 
You  speak  of  angry  wind  and  snow, 
"  And  skies  of  gloomy  grey. 

O  withered  leaf  !  O  sailing  leaf  ! 

Wrapt  in  your  crumpled  brown, 
You  know  the  tenderness  of  Spring, 

The  Summer's  rich  array  ; 
You  caught  the  glory  of  the  Fall 

Before  you  fluttered  down  ; 
You  hold  the  glow  and  heat  and  light 
In  which  you  past  away. 

O  withered  leaf  !  O  sailing  leaf  ! 
When  buried  'neath  the  snow, 
When  buried  'neath  the  cruel  snow 
That  holds  you  captive  long, 


2l8  TO  A  DEAD  LEAF. 

Shall  you  remember  all  the  joys 

That  came  so  long  ago  ? 
And  from  the  distance  shall  you  catch 
The  echo  of  my  song  ? 


BLOW. 

]LOW,  blow,  thou  bitter  wind, 

And  heap  the  scattered  leaves  ! 
Blow,  blow,  thou  changeful  wind, 

And  heap  the  drifting  snow  ! 
Ripple  the  noonday  grass, 

Or  rustle  'mongst  the  sheaves, 
Or  wake  the  tender  Spring, — 
Blow,  blow  ! 

Blow,  blow,  thou  Summer  wind 

In  whispers  far  away  ! 
Blow,  blow,  thou  sighing  wind 

In  murmurs  faint  and  low  ! 
Thro'  woodlands  quick  with  song, 

And  meadows  sweet  with  hay, 
O  perfume-laden  wind, 
-    Blow,  blow  ! 

Blow,  blow,  thou  Winter  wind, 

And  beat  the  frosty  air  ! 
Blow,  blow,  thou  angry  wind, 

The  year  is  lying  low  ! 


220  BLOW. 

Pile  up  the  scurrying  clouds, 

And  make  the  new  year  fair  ; 
O  wild  and  wailing  wind, 
Blow,  blow  ! 


LET  US  THANK  OUR  FATHER  DEAR. 

>R  mellow  pears  we  have  gathered  in, 
For  rosy  apples,  and  well-filled  bin, 
That  tell  of  a  fruitful  year  ; 
For  golden  grain  that  is  stored  away, 
For  fragrant  piles  of  the  clover  hay, 
Let  us  thank  our  Father  dear. 

For  a  new-found  joy,  or  a  new-made  friend, 
For  sweet,  fair  flowers  to  love  and  tend; 

For  the  merry  winter  cheer  ; 
For  the  snowflakes  white,  and  the  voices  gay, 
For  our  happy  and  sweet,  and  loving  day, 

Let  us  thank  our  Father  dear. 

For  the  year  that  is  past  and  the  year  to  come, 
For  the  ripened  stores  of  our  harvest  home, 

For  the  home  that  blossoms  here  ; 
For  the  thoughts  and  fancies  that  'round  it  cling 
For  the  hearts  that  love,  and  the  lips  that  sing, 

Let  us  thank  our  Father  dear. 


SNOWDRIFTS. 

IW  cold  the  snow,  how  pure  and  white 

How  deep  the  shadows  on  it  lie  ! 
Above  them  bends  a  soft  blue  sky 
With  streaming  sunshine  warm  and  bright. 

The  snow  was  swirled  by  angry  blast 

And  sent  adrift  thro'  frosty  air, 

But  now  it  lies  in  silence  there, 
With  all  its  troubled  tumult  past. 

In  dazzling  splendor,  dazzling  white, 

Rounded  and  curved,  how  pure  the  snow  ! 
How  clear  and  cold  the  world  below  ! 

The  world  above  how  calm  and  bright ! 


THE  SNOWBIRD. 

|HEN  the  leaves  are  shed, 
And  the  branches  bare, 
When  the  snows  are  deep, 
And  the  flowers  asleep, 
And  the  autumn  dead  ; 
And  the  skies  are  o'er  us  bent, 
Grey  and  gloomy,  since  she  went, 
And  the  sifting  snow  is  drifting 
Thro'  the  air  ; 

Then,  'mid  snowdrifts  white, 
Though  the  trees  are  bare, 
Comes  the  snowbird,  bold 
In  the  winter's  cold  ; 
Quick  and  round,  and  bright, 
Light  he  steps  across  the  snow, 
Cares  he  not  for  winds  that  blow, 
Tho'  the  sifting  snow  be  drifting 
Thro'  the  air. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

|TRONG  as  the  ship  that  braves  the  blast 

Upon  a  stormy  sea  ; 
Deep  as  the  ocean's  rippling  tides, 
So  shall  our  friendship  be. 

Firm  as  the  anchor,  buried  far 

Beneath  a  rolling  sea  ; 
Pure  as  the  sky  above  it  bent, 

So  shall  our  friendship  be. 


SPRING  IS  HERE. 

]IND,  be  still,  'tis  Spring  ! 

Sun,  shine  bright  and  clear  ! 
Birds,  fly  northward — sing  ! 
Spring  is  here  ! 

Snowdrifts,  melt,  'tis  Spring  ! 

Make  her  pathway  clear, 
Make  the  forest  ring, 

Spring  is  here  ! 

May  shall  bring  us  flowers, 

April,  smile  and  tear, 
March  prepares  the  hours — 

March  is  here  ! 


FLOWN     AWAY. 

]N  the  bare,  brown  boughs  before  me, 

In  the  softly  falling  rain, 
Rests  a  bluebird, — now,  upstarting, 
See  how  suddenly  she's  darting 
Far  away  across  the  plain. 

It  was  but  a  dash  of  color 

Shown  against  a  stormy  sky, 
Only  two  blue  wings  uplifted 
When  the  grey  clouds  slowly  drifted, — 

But  they  bore  a  song  on  high. 

She  is  lost  in  misty  darkness, — 
Will  she  pierce  beyond  the  grey  ? 

Will  she  reach  the  blue  behind  it  ? 

Will  she  pause  when  she  shall  find  it  ? 
Will  she  know  it  ?     Who  can  say  ! 


]HEN  shall  Springtime  cheer  us, 

When,  ah  when  ? 
When  fair  June  is  near  us, 

Then,  ah  then  ! 

Then  the  trees  shall  burst  in  leaf, 
Winter  shall  forget  his  grief ; 
Winds  shall  all  forget  to  moan 
In  their  wild  and  wintry  tone  ; 
Gentle  breezes  then  shall  play 
Thro'  the  fragrant  woods  of  May, 
Birds  shall  seek  a  Northern  home, 
Bees  and  flowers  together  come  : 
When  shall  Springtime  cheer  us. 

When,  ah  when  ? 
When  fair  June  is  near  us, 

Not  till  then  ! 


AN    APRIL   RAIN. 

| HE  drops  are  falling,  falling 

Upon  the  window-pane, 
The  birds  are  calling,  calling 

Thro'  wood,  and  vale,  and  plain,- 
It  is  an  April  rain. 

O,  see  the  clear  drops  glisten 
In  many  a  pearly  chain  ! 

O,  hear  the  phoebe— listen  ! 
O,  hear  the  plaintive  strain 
Sung  thro'  the  April  rain. 

The  clear,  fresh  wind  is  blowing, 
The  grass  grows  green  again, 

The  brook  is  overflowing, 
And  sings  a  glad  refrain 
Thro'  whispering  April  rain. 

The  drops  are  falling,  falling 

Upon  the  window-pane, 
The  birds  are  calling,  calling 

Thro'  wood,  and  hill,  and  plain,- 

It  is  an  April  rain. 


APRIL!  APRIL!  ARE  YOU  HERE? 

[PRIL  !    April  !    are  you  here  ? 

O    how  fresh  the  wind  is  blowing  ! 
See  !  the  sky  is  bright  and  clear, 
O  how  green  the  grass  is  growing  ! 
April  !  April  ! 

Are  you  here  ? 

April  !  April  !  is  it  you  ? 

See  how  fair  the  flowers  are  springing ! 
Sun  is  warm  and  brooks  are  clear, 
O  how  glad  the  birds  are  singing  ! 
April  !  April  ! 

Is  it  you  ? 

April  !  April !  you  are  here  ! 

Tho'  your  smiling  turn  to  weeping, 
Tho'  your  skies  grow  cold  and  drear, 
Tho'  your  gentle  winds  are  sleeping, 
April  !  April  ! 

You  are  here  ! 


A    WELCOME. 

[ELCOME  to  the  winds  of  Spring, 
Welcome  to  the  starting  flowers, 
Welcome  to  the  birds  that  sing, 

Welcome  to  the  springtide  hours  ! 
Tho'  the  winds  be  wild  and  high, 

There's  a  newness  in  them  blown, 
That  the  Summer's  languid  sigh, 

Distant  murmur,  does  not  own. 
There's  a  warmness  in  the  sun, 

There's  a  fragrance  in  the  air, 
There's  a  blueness  in  the  sky 

Winter  skies  may  never  wear. 
There's  a  greenness  in  the  field 

Where  the  babbling  brooklets  flow, 
There's  a  freshness  in  the  songs 

Later  birds  may  never  know. 
Welcome,  then,  to  winds  of  Spring ! 

Welcome  to  the  starting  flowers, 
Welcome  to  the  birds  that  sing, 

Welcome  to  the  springtide  hours  ! 


[ING,  O    sing 

To  the  Spring  ! 
What  did  April  bring  ? 
She  brought  us  violets  blue  and  shy, 

She  brought  us  windflowers  white  and  frail, 
She  brought  a  warm  and  tender  sky, 
And  life  in  every  gale. 
Sing,  O    sing 
To  the  Spring ! 
These,  and  more,  did  April  bring. 


IN    THE    WOODS. 

.R    away  in  shadowy  woodlands, 
Where  a  footstep  never  falls, — 
There  the  Spring  is  late  and  shy, 
There  the  pink  arbutus  opens, 

And  the  plaintive  phoebe  calls, 
There  the  living  sunlight  glances 
Thro'  a  changeful  April  sky. 

There,  in  new  delight,  the  robin 
Chants  alone  his  morning  lay, 

And  the  bluebird  singing  flies  ; 

There,  'mid  leafy  glooms,  the  thrushes 
Trill  their  fuller  roundelay, 

Or  the  echoes'  quick  vibrations 

Answer  to  their  restless  cries. 

There  the  rich  and  lavish  Summer, 
With  her  roses,  tangled  bloom, 

Comes  and  goes  unheeded  by  ; 

Blending  in  a  dusky  splendor, 
Light,  and  color,  and  perfume, 


IN  THE   WOODS.  233 

Dainty  ferns  and  dewy  mosses, 
Flowers,  and  leaves,  and  deep  blue  sky. 

Autumn  comes  in  glowing  colors, 

Stands  a  moment  in  a  flame, — 
Then  she  loses  all  her  crown, 
And  her  purple  and  her  crimson, 

Burning,  fade  and  fall  again, 
Flying  thro'  the  dusky  forest 
In  a  whirl  of  crumpled  brown. 

Far  away  in  shadowy  woodlands, 
In  the  Spring  the  soft  winds  blow, 

Murmuring  to  the  rustling  leaves  ;— 

But  no  voice  shall  break  the  silence, 
And  no  footprint  crush  the  snow, 

When  the  wilder  blast  of  Winter 

Thro'  the  empty  forest  grieves. 


BEFORE  A  STORM. 

[TH  a  close,  heavy  stillness 

The  air  is  oppressed, 
There  is  rain  in  the  east, 

There  are  clouds  in  the  west ; 
Grey  billows  of  vapor 

Roll  silently  on, 
To  shut  out  the  sky 

And  the  warm,  gracious  sun. 


AFTER  A  STORM. 

jjITH  a  freshness  and  sweetness 

The  air  is  made  new  ; 

The  birds  are  all  singing, 

The  skies  are  all  blue  ; 
The  flowers  have  uplifted 

Their  petals  again, 
And  the  meadows  grow  green 

At  the  touch  of  the  rain. 


SOFTLY,  SOFTLY  DIE  AWAY. 

JOFTLY,  softly  die  away 

Glowing  colors  of  the  day, 

Failing  lights  are  pale  and  wan 
When  the  setting  sun  is  gone  ; 
And  that  red  streak  in  the  sky 
Shows  that  even  day  must  die. 

Softly  creeps  the  evening  on 
When  the  radiant  day  is  gone, 
One  by  one  the  stars  gleam  forth, 
East  and  west,  and  south  and  north, 
Softly  chilly  twilight  goes, 
Softly  comes   the  night's  repose. 


IN   THE   SPRING. 

HOW  sweet  the  woods  are  in  the  Spring  ! 

When  no  frosty  chill  of  Winter  lingers, 
Murmuring  breezes,  as  they  come  and  go 
Seem  caressing  you  with  loving  fingers  ; 
And  the  sky  is  soft  and  hazy  blue, 

With  the  snowy  clouds  across  it  flying, 
And  the  thrushes  fill  the  air  with  song, 
And  the  winds  are  whispering  and  sighing. 

O  how  fresh  the  fields  are  in  the  Spring  ! 

When  the  brooks  are  singing,  dancing,  leaping, 
And  the  grass  has  lifted  high  its  head, 

And  the  wild  flowers  have  awaked  from  sleeping; 
With  their  ferns  in  patches  dewy- sweet, 

With  their  fragrant  leaves  and  juicy  clover, 
Trees  of  misty  green,  so  lately  bare, 

And  the  sweet  spring  sunlight  falling  over. 

O  how  faint  the  hills  are  in  the  Spring  ! 

When  from  clouds  the  eye  has  scarce  defined 
them, 


IN  THE  SPRING. 

In  their  blueness  but  a  dream  of  blue, 

With  the  sunset  glowing  red  behind  them  ; 

With  a  purple  haze  before  them  drawn, 
Like  a  curtain,  indistinctly  veiling, 

And  we  feel  the  loveliness  beyond, 
As  the  sunset  lights  are  slowly  failing. 

O  how  happy  homes  are  in  the  Spring  ! 

Maples  round  the  door  grow  green  and  tender, 
Sweet  air  comes  thro'  windows  open  thrown, 

Springtime  conquers— Winter  must  surrender  ; 
Trills  of  happy  bird-song  from  without 

Fill  the  air  with  music,  clearer,  sweeter  ; 
To  the  garden  Spring  has  kissed  her  hand, 

And  the  flowers  all  rise  up  to  greet  her. 

O  how  sweet  our  thoughts  are  in  the  Spring  ! 

Every  heart  is  filled  with  true  thanksgiving, 
Steeped  in  sunlight  and  with  music  stirred 

In  the  dear  delight  of  all  things  living  ; 
Happy  memories  of  other  Springs, 

Summer's  roses  ever  drawing  nearer, — 
In  our  hearts  all  love  reflected  lies, 

As  the  green  trees  in  the  lake's  broad  mirror. 


BIRTHDAY  SONG—  TO  H.  S.  G. 
(May  iqth,  1878.) 


|LL  dappled  with  clouds  is  the  warm  blue 

sky, 

And  steeped  in  sunlight  the  green  earth  lies, 
The  south  wind  murmurs  drowsily  by 

In  fainting  whispers  and  dreamy  sighs  ; 
It  brings  its  fancies  from  mountain  and  lea, 

It  brings  its  fancies  from  far  and  near, 
It  catches  a  birthday  song  for  me, 
And  breathes  it  into  my  ear  :  — 

"  Thro'  many  a  forest  have  I  flown, 

And  many  a  hillside  seen, 
And  many  a  silvery  furrow  blown 

Thro'  rippling  fields  of  green  ; 
But  never  did  I  know  a  hill 

So  broad  and  fair  as  this, 
Nor  such  a  pure  and  sparkling  rill 

Has  it  been  my  lot  to  kiss." 


240  BIRTHDAY  SONG —TO  IL   S.   G. 

"  Full  many  a  rustling  tree  I've  bent, 

And  opened  many  a  flower  ; 
And  each  and  all  a  greeting  sent 

On  this  most  happy  hour. 
The  cold  grey  rocks,  so  hard  and  stern, 

A  birthday  greeting  send, 
For  even  a  senseless  stone  will  turn 

To  thank  a  loving  friend." 

All  dappled  with  clouds  is  the  warm  blue  sky, 

And  steeped  in  sunlight  the  green  earth  lies, 
The  south  wind  murmurs  drowsily  by 

In  fainting  whispers  and  dreamy  sighs  ; 
How  gladly  and  joyously  ripple  the  rills 

On  this  brightest  and  best  of  the  New  Year's 

days, 
How  dimly  outlined  the  distant  hills 

In  their  fold  of  purple  haze. 


WHO  BRINGS  IN  THE  SUMMER? 

|HEN  we  bid  good-bye  to  Spring, 

Full  of  joys  that  June  shall  brin< 
When  we  hear  the  glad  birds  sing 

"June,  thou  joyous  comer  !" 
There's  a  sweetness  in  the  air, 
There's  a  languid  fragrance  there, 
Maytide  breezes  did  not  bear, — 

Who  brings  in  the  Summer  ? 

Babbling  brook  and  fluttering  breeze, 
Sunset,  golden  thro'  the  trees, 
Butterflies  and  humming  bees, — 

June,  the  latest  comer  ! 
Sunlight,  glancing  in  between 
Chestnut  leaves  of  olive  green,— 
Meadows,  quiet  and  serene, 

These  bring  in  the  Summer. 

Birds  that  happy  songs  repeat, 
Apple-blossoms,  rosy-sweet, 
Scattered  petals  at  our  feet, 
June,  the  gladdest  comer  ! 


242          WHO  BRINGS  IN  THE  SUMMER? 

Clear  blue  sky,  so  deep  and  fair, 
Trembling  depths  of  azure  air, 
Wild  azaleas,  red  and  rare, 
These  bring  in  the  Summer. 

Wild  birds,  sing  your  merriest  strain, 
Bid  good-bye  to  springtime's  reign, 
Welcome  in  fair  June  again, 

June,  the  happiest  comer  ! 
Let  our  thoughts  be  light  and  gay, 
Care  and  sorrow  far  away, 
So  with  thankful  hearts  to-day 

We'll  bring  in  the  Summer. 


MAIDEN'S    HAIR. 

WITH    A    GIFT    OF    PRESSED    FERNS. 

)HERE    the  tinkling  water-falls 

Sparkle  over  rocky  ledges, 
Where  the  slate-grey  catbird  calls 
In  and  out  the  tangled  hedges, 
Green  and  slender,  spreading  fair, 
You  may  see  the  maiden's  hair. 

'Tis  as  tho'  some  lady  left 

By  the  stream  her  floating  tresses 
Long  ago,  and  now,  bereft, 

Where  they  be  she  little  guesses, — 
But  they  still  are  tossing  there, 
And  we  call  them  maiden's  hair. 

Then  may  these  a  picture  bring 
Of  green  alders  overhanging, 
Of  a  wind-blown  brook  in  Spring, 
And  a  thousand  ripples,  clanging 
In  a  silver  mingling,  where 
Nods  the  slender  maiden's  hair. 


244  MAIDEN'S  HAIR. 

Tho'  their  grace  more  formal  be 

Than  when  by  the  brook  they  fluttered, 
Touched  by  winds  that  lazily 
In  among  the  tree-tops  muttered, 

Still  the  same  quaint  charm  they  bear 
Of  the  earliest  maiden's  hair. 


SUNSET. 

CHANGEFUL   light,    suffused    in    rosy 
blushes, — 

The  sunset  sky  has  many  a  crimson  stain, 
Across  the  east  the  fainting  splendor  flushes, 
And  far  beyond  the  western  hills, 
In  snatches,  gleams  again. 
/ 

A  soft  grey  sky  with  floating  mists  upon  it, 

Warm  purple-brown,  and  flecked   and  fringed 
with  rose  ; 

The  dark  blue  mountains  stand  as  painted  on  it 

In  fading  lights,  and  misty  folds, 
And  fast  dissolving  hues. 

O  sunset,  deepening  in  your  golden  shadows  ! 

O  sunset,  widening  in  your  rosier  glow  ! 
Your  flush  has  fall'n  as  fair  on  daisied  meadows 
As  when  the  winter  skies  have  lent 

Theii  pinkness  to  the  snow  ! 


WHAT   DO   YOU  SEE? 

]VER  the  meadows  cast  your  eye, — 

What  do  you  see  ? 
O  Life  in  its  many  phases  ! 

From  the  birds  that  sing  and  the  wings  that  soar, 
And  the  bee  that  hums  as  he  gathers  his  store, 
To  the  brooks  and  the  trees  and  the  daisies,— 
These  you  may  see — and  more. 

Into  the  forest  cast  your  eye, 

What  do  you  see  ? 
O,  Silence  in  all  its  phases  ! 
From  the  rocks  that  stand  as  they  long  have  stood, 
And  the  shadows  that  fall  across  the  wood, 
To  the  skies,  and  the  distant  hazes, — • 
These  you  may  see; — and  more. 

Into  your  own  heart  cast  your  eye, — 

What  do  you  see  ? 
O,  Thought  in  its  many  phases  ! 


WHA T  DO   YOU  SEE ? 

From  Right  that  struggles  to  conquer  Wrong, 
And  Love  that  is  pure  and  Friendship  strong, 
To  fancy's  wildering  mazes, — 

These  you  may  see — and  more. 


SKY  of  scurrying  clouds 
That  fly  on  dappled  sails, 
And  with  purple  oars, 
To  the  sunset  shores 

Are  blown  by  the  evening  gales. 

They  reach  the  golden  gate, 

They  catch  the  golden  glow, 
And,  with  purple  oars, 
At  the  sunset  shores 

They  wait,  while  the  winds  breathe  low 


A   LULLABY. 

[HE  sun  is  behind  the  western  hills, 

The  purple  fades,  and  the  red  lights  die 
The  faint  stars  sleep  when  the  day  is  bright, 
But  they  watch  for  baby  all  the  night, — 
Lullaby ! 

While  day  still  lingers  the  robin  sings, 
And  echoes  deep  in  the  wood  reply, 
But  when  the  earth  is  no  longer  light, 
The  whippoorwill  sings  to  the  darkling  night, — 
Lullaby  ! 

Over  the  mountain  there  comes  a  glow, 

The  clouds  break  up  in  the  eastern  sky  ; 
The  moon  is  shining  so  round  and  bright, 
And  walks  the  heavens  thro'  all  the  night,— 
Lullaby  ! 

The  deep  green  vine  to  the  window  creeps, 
By  night  winds  stirred  as  they  flutter  by, 


250  A  LULLABY. 

And  with  clasping  tendrils,  clinging  tight, 
It  peeps  at  the  baby  the  livelong  night, — 
Lullaby  ! 

O  stronger  than  moon  and  stars  in  one, — 
O  pure  and  true  as  the  midnight  sky, — 
Love  is  forever  warm  and  bright, 
Guarding  the  baby  day  and  night, — 
Lullaby ! 


RIPE  GRAIN. 

STILL,  white  face  of  perfect  peace, 
•Untouched  by  passion,  freed  from  pain  ! 
He,  who  ordained  that  work  should  cease, 
Took  to  Himself  the  ripened  grain. 

O  noble  face  !  your  beauty  bears 

The  glory  that  is  wrung  from  pain, — 

The  high,  celestial  beauty  wears 
Of  finished  work,  of  ripened  grain. 

Of  human  care  you  left  no  trace, 
No  lightest  trace  of  grief  or  pain, — 

On  earth  an  empty  form  and  face — 
In  Heaven  stands  the  ripened  grain. 


PURPOSES. 

|PON  the  broad,  green  mountain  side 

There  are  so  many  moss-grown  nooks 

Thro'  ample  meadows,  flowering  wide, 
There  flow  so  many  singing  brooks, 
The  purple  asters  o'er  them  lean, 
The  flickering  shadows  fall  between, 
The  maples  tremble,  all  day  long, 
With  shifting  wind  or  passing  song. 

And  every  leaf,  on  every  tree, 

Must  start  with  Spring  and  fade  with  Fall, 
And  every  brook  must  reach  the  sea, 
And  sunbeams  quiver  over  all ; 

And  every  bloom  must  be  a  bud, 
And  every  oak-tree  in  the  wood 
Within  an  acorn-cup  must  lie, 
And  every  bird  must  learn  to  fly. 

And  every  cloud  must  fall  to  earth, 
In  silent  shower,  or  stormy  spray, 

And  every  man,  whate'er  his  birth, 
Must  learn,  at  last,  to  pass  away  ; 


PURPOSES.  253 

And  every  heart  must  learn  to  beat, 
As  every  robin  learns  to  trill, — 
And  every  life  be  made  complete, 
Led  upward  by  a  higher  Will. 


NOTE. — Excepting  the  first  poem  of  each  author,  these 
verses  are  arranged,  virtually,  in  the  order  in  which  they  were 
written,  the  earliest  poems  given,  in  each  case,  being  written 
at  the  age  of  nine  years.  Fairyland  and  ' 'Rah  fer  Tilding 
were  written  in  common.  The  Farm  Beyond  the  Hills  has 
reference  to  an  outlook  between  near  ridges,  upon  distant 
mountains  and  vales. 


-blossoms 


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